


Xayacatl

by Numpty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Numpty/pseuds/Numpty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Case-fic set sometime during Season 2. A cursed mask, an old friend and an error of judgement may prove fatal for Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Mask

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you goes to my wonderful beta and friend, Sharlot, for cleaning up all my silly mistakes and for her endless patience and encouragement during the writing of this story. I've learned such a lot from you, my friend. I've tinkered with this chapter since Sharlot cast her eye over it, so any remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> This story has 9 chapters in total and I'll be posting weekly.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

**Chapter 1 – The Mask**

 

It wasn't one of Dean's better days.

 

The arm tightened around his throat, squeezing his windpipe until the pounding in his bruised crown echoed and boomeranged. The guy had brained him out of nowhere with the butt of his gun, dropping him like a stone. Dean had been too busy blinking away a kaleidoscope of colours to notice the arms grabbing at him, too busy shrinking from the roaring in his ears to feel himself being pulled upright and too busy trying to stop his stomach from bursting like a squashed balloon to register his brother's panicked shout.

 

Dean felt the barrel of the gun prod him below his ribs, urging him backwards as surely as the grip around his neck did. His stomach dropped as the unexpected movement caused him to lose his footing. He choked out a cough before he could scramble to right himself, his momentary lapse adding to the pressure against his Adam's apple.

 

“Steady now,” the voice was breathless against his ear, scratchy like an old record. “No funny business!”

 

Dean wasn't laughing at the cliché, and by the look on Sam's face, standing several paces away, the kid wasn't splitting his sides either. No, Sam was looking distinctly unamused. The younger man's features were taut, grim, his eyes flashing furiously. Dean met his brother's gaze and wished he hadn't. He hated it when the kid needed to go all Schwarzenegger to save his worthless ass. Especially when Dean had fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and especially when hooking up with Billy on this gig had been his idea – even if the _hunt_ had been Sam's. And especially when he could see the frantic concern that sat just behind Sam's livid façade.

 

“Let him go!” Sam barked, jaw clenching as he raised his gun and drew a bead on what Dean assumed was Billy's forehead. What he _hoped_ was Billy's forehead.

 

“You're not gonna shoot me,” Billy wheezed, his breath tickling against Dean's neck and making him cringe. “I'll blow another hole through your brother before you can even blink.” But there was a wobble, somewhere, in the other man's voice. Dean couldn't say he blamed him; Sam was looking feral. 

 

“Now, I want that mask, and you're gonna give it to me.” Bill's voice hardened, and he tugged Dean backwards again, his meaning clear. 

 

_Don't even think about it, Sammy!_ Dean wanted to growl, but the elder Winchester's protest never made it past his lips as Bill choked him once more. He saw Sam jerk in response, but the kid stayed true to his training, his aim never wavering.

 

o0o0o

 

 

_Three days earlier..._

 

“Sammy, you know how it is...monsters we _get_ , people are just whacked! I'm still not hearin' anything that makes this our kinda deal,” Dean half shrugged, one elbow resting along the Impala's open window as they cruised along the dusty Texan highway, heading toward Arkansas despite his reservations.

 

“She had everything to live for, Dean! She had a family – three kids – a good job. Everyone described her as being happy with her life. So...what, she just wakes up one day and decides to drive the four of them off the edge of a cliff?” Sam leaned forward earnestly, getting into his stride in a way that was destined to end with Dean caving in and going along with it anyway.

 

“Sam, it sucks. It does. But crap happens–” Dean tried before being immediately cut off.

 

“Some of the reports say she was acting weird before she drove off in the car!”

 

“Uh, yeah, 'cause she was about to go kill herself and her three kids,” Dean tossed back, his shoulders tensing for the umpteenth time as he readied himself for another battle. Sam had won the first clash, sure, but Dean figured best two out of three was still an option.

 

He got a bitchface in return. “No, Dean.  _Our_ kind of weird. Look man, I just...I got a feeling about this one.” 

 

Dean groaned internally when the bitchface was replaced by doe-eyed zeal. He was pretty sure he was about to lose battle number two. Then a thought struck him. “Wait, I thought you said you didn't have any visions?” He felt his body stiffen as it occurred to him that his brother might have been lying to him. Sam's psychic hocus-pocus never failed to set his teeth on edge.

 

The younger man heaved a theatrical sigh, sounding uncannily like a sulking teen.  _Not so far from the truth_ , Dean rolled his eyes. Sam had been a huffing, puffing, pouting, nightmare of a teenager, long having perfected the art of the bitchface before he'd hit puberty.

 

“I didn't have a vision, Dean. It's just, you're always talking about your hunter's intuition–”

 

“Yeah, except I wouldn't call it somethin' as wussy-ass as that, mostly because I'm not a _girl!_ ” Dean snorted and shook his head with a mischievous smile. 

 

The bitchface was back. “Well, whatever. The point still stands.” Sam, it seemed, was not about to be baited. Pity. The kid sighed again, raising his palms in an open gesture; conciliatory. Dean tried not to pull a face. He could tell this wasn't going to go well for him. “Look, apparently the woman went to a garage sale the day before, and since then she was acting all secretive.” Sam pulled a dog-eared newspaper from his book bag, rustling it noisily until he found the part he wanted. “Her husband said she kept going into some kinda trance, muttering something under her breath that didn't make any sense. Even had her checked out at the hospital and she was fine. You can't tell me that sounds normal.” He looked at Dean, the very picture of scholarly logic and reason.

 

Dean pursed his lips. Blinked. Adjusted the volume on the radio. And blew out a defeated breath. Dammit. “I guess not.”  _Best three out of five?_

 

“We've taken gigs on less than that–”

 

“Nobody likes a gloater, Sam,” Dean growled and jacked up the volume once more, ignoring the way his little brother smugly settled himself back into the chair and closed his eyes. Well, Dean would just have to ponder his payback all the way to Arkadelphia. 

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

“Look, I already told the cops everything I could,” Neil Parrish's sigh was flat, his eyes lifeless as he gave FBI Agents Gibbons and Hill the weary once over. He was unshaven and uneven, his features lopsided and droopy, reminding Dean so strongly of the cartoon dog that he almost expected to hear the man grumble _that makes me mad!_

 

Parrish was standing in the doorway in rumpled pyjamas that hung in limp swathes from his wiry frame. The hallway beyond was dark and musty-smelling. “I can't even think what the FBI would wanna know about Marsha and–” the man swallowed, pausing to compose himself as the tendons on his neck sharpened and his eyelids started to flutter.

 

“We're very sorry for your loss,” Sam stepped forward, fully embodying the compassionate professional. It wasn't an act, Dean knew, which was one of the main reasons he always allowed his brother to take the lead in these kinds of situations. Not that _he_ couldn't be sympathetic, he just...fumbled with it more than his kid brother. A fact he'd die before admitting.

 

“We'd just like to check out a few details, if you don't mind.” Sam continued, holding the bereaved man spellbound. “We're not at liberty to say too much right now, but any information you could give us would be a big help. I understand that this must be difficult for you–” Those friggin' eyes. How anyone could believe Sammy was an FBI agent with that narcotic gaze of his...

 

“No, no...of course, please come in,” Neil made a vague gesture behind him, lulled into stepping back to allow his visitors passage. 

 

“Thank you,” Dean flashed a closed-mouth smile as he stepped into the gloomy corridor.

 

“Uh, I'm sorry 'bout the mess...” Neil began, the robotic dullness in his voice betraying the fact that the Winchesters were not the first people he had apologised to, and that he was clearly not sorry at all. Dean couldn't say he blamed him. The Impala had been a dumping ground for all manner of things in the aftermath of their father's death.

 

“No problem,” Sam assured him, following their host's direction into the living room, Dean not far behind.

 

The elder Winchester examined their surroundings as he gingerly sat down beside his brother on the snot-green sofa, and wished he hadn't. The smiles of young, sparkly children sunbeamed down at him from all four walls, garlanded by cards of condolence and sympathy. Vases of discoloured flowers stood around the room, wilting long past their shelf-life as they dripped dry, brittle petals onto mantelpieces and dresser-tops. He started to get what Sam had been saying from the start. This had been a happy family. Too happy.

 

“Uh, can you tell us about what happened the day before your wife...died?” Sam hesitated, cautious, and Dean could tell he was walking a semantic minefield. He shifted in visible discomfort, and Dean realised his brother was feeling just as overwhelmed by the unexpressed outpouring of grief in the room as he was. 

 

Neil ran his teeth across his bottom lip and scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Like I told the cops...Marsha went to a garage sale.” He snorted. “She'd been real excited 'bout it. One of the oldest houses in the city. Old lady that lived there died not long ago. Family was clearin' out a' town. Lotsa old junk to sell, y'know?”

 

The brothers nodded encouragingly. They knew.

 

“Yammered on 'bout nothin' else for days. That was my Marsha...” he drifted off, a terrible grief flickering in his eyes before he hastily shuttered it away. “She went off to the sale, came back couple hours later an'...well, it all changed after that.”

 

“What do you mean?” Dean leaned forward, the shoulders of his monkey suit tightening uncomfortably.

 

“It was weird. She was real...urgent when she came back. Agitated. Wouldn't tell me what was wrong. I asked her, did she buy anything, and she said: 'no...no', all vague and spaced out, and then she disappeared outside. I wasn't real sure what to make of it, so I left her to it awhile.”

 

“Go on,” Sam's features softened as he nodded, seeming to sense the same reticence Dean had. “I'm sorry, I know this is hard.”

 

“Well, a little later the kids come runnin' in sayin' that mommy was actin' all strange. I went out to the back yard to see her, and she was...I dunno how to describe it, she was just in some kinda trance. I waved my hand in front of her eyes and she didn't even blink. Then she started mutterin' somethin'...Lord, I dunno what.”

 

“Do you remember anything about it?” Dean asked.

 

“Uh...I don't think–” the man started to shake his head.

 

“C'mon, you gotta remember somethin'. A word. Anything,” Dean pushed, more forcibly than Sam would have liked, if the mild glare he received was anything to go by.

 

If Neil noticed, however, he gave no sign. “Why would that matter?” He queried blandly.

 

Sam shot Dean another disapproving scowl before swooping in to save the day. “Like I said, we aren't at liberty to go into it right now, but every piece of information helps.”

 

“Okay,” Parrish seemed to accept Sam's stock response. “It sounded like another language or somethin'...Let me see if I can...” He scratched his chin again, the sound sandpapery in the silence. “Mee-co-as-key, yeah, that was it. Mee-co-as-key, somethin', somethin', kwa-key.” His eyes drifted heavenward for a moment before they returned to his guests. “Lack-ah, that was another one. That's about as much as I can remember. Weird, huh?” He chuckled bitterly, “I thought she was having a seizure or something, so I called an ambulance.”

 

“That must have been strange,” Sam was nodding, grim-faced. “Can you tell us what happened after that?”

 

Parrish's harsh laugh rang out with a hollow, sombre note. “Well, turned out it wasn't a seizure. They did one of those brain scan things. Nothin' showed up, so they sent her to see a shrink. But he just came and said somethin' about her just being  _anxious_ and then he sent her home.” He shook his head, sending his rubbery features wobbling.

 

“She was better after that,” he continued with a shrug. “Acted like nothing happened.” The man stopped then, eyes rolling around the room, pausing on the photographs. Dean noticed the façade slip again, despair turning Parrish's eyes molten. “When I look back now, though...the kids, they just couldn't settle with her. How I could let her just take them...? Why I didn't think to watch her more closely after that...?” 

 

“Sometimes people you care about do things you don't expect,” Sam murmured, eyes sliding towards Dean and then skittering away. The elder Winchester winced internally. Sometimes the kid could be as subtle as a sledgehammer. But Dean couldn't think about John Winchester right then, he just couldn't.

 

o0o0o

 

“I can't find anything in any of the usual languages, Dean,” Sam huffed in frustration, pushing the laptop screen down with an angry flick and getting to his feet. He looked ungainly and precarious after so many hours of sitting as he wobbled to the motel window, like a foal taking its first few steps. He pulled the flimsy voile curtain aside and looked uselessly out at the patchy parking lot, a tarmac-covered wasteland that had broken out liberally in raggedy weeds. Exactly what the kid expected to see, Dean wasn't sure. The motel had little in the way of aesthetics beyond the wonky, flickering signage and Lego-standard brickwork. “I mean, I even asked Bobby, and he had jack!” 

 

“Well it wasn't like the guy gave us much to go on,” Dean pointed out from his reclined position on the bed. He'd loosened off his tie and kicked off his shoes but hadn't managed to progress as far as a shower. He wasn't quite ready for the greasy bonanza of limescale and lukewarm water that awaited him. “'Sides, I think I got somethin',” Dean announced, lips approaching a smirk as Sam turned back towards him with surprised expectancy. He chalked up a mental point. 

 

“Down at the cop shop?” Sam queried, crossing the room on stiff limbs to sit on the other bed. The covers were multi-coloured and bright, making the younger man appear as if he had rainbows shooting out of his ass. 

 

“Yeah,” Dean sat up, a leering grin crossing his face at the memory of his visit downtown. “ _Brandi_ had a lot to tell me, including her phone number and her cup size.” At the bitchface, he relented. “Okay, not that last one...that was just a guess!” Sam's disapproval deepened into a large V on his forehead. “Alright, alright, don't get your tighty-whities in a bunch, Sammy. She told me the officers who found Marsha Parrish's car wreck also found somethin' else...” he paused for the suspense, licking his lips.

 

Sam, long used to his older brother's penchant for the dramatic, merely arched an unimpressed brow.

 

“Okay, fine!” Dean puffed out, deflated at his brother's lack of enthusiasm. “Apparently they found some old _mask_.”

 

Sam blinked and tilted his chin back. Yeah, that had pretty much been Dean's reaction when the lovely Brandi had whispered it conspiratorially in his ear. Well, aside from the way his downstairs brain had responded. “A mask?”  _Now_ the kid was intrigued, eyes widening and fingers twitching against his denim-clad knees – no doubt itching to get back to his computer. Dean smiled a fond smile. “How old? What did it look like?”

 

_Seriously?_ “I dunno, Sam!” Dean rolled his eyes. “Brandi wasn't exactly an expert. Old. That's all she said. Old.”

 

Sam was pursing his lips, clearly dismissing Brandi's expert opinion. “Which could mean anything.”

 

Not that Dean disagreed, he doubted Brandi had more than two brain cells to rub together. He cocked his head in acknowledgement but said nothing.

 

Sam stared at him a moment, eyes searching his big brother's features, waiting for some kind of pronouncement. Dean looked impassively back, delighting in the way the kid's irritation began to grow at the continued silence. Any moment now...

 

“So, we gonna bust in and get it?” Sam threw his arms wide, voice leap-frogging several octaves.

 

“Can't.” Dean returned, deadpan, holding all the cards and enjoying it. 

 

“Why not?” Sam slid up another couple of octaves.

 

Dean leaned forward, voice turning mysterious, as though there was a flickering campfire between them instead of a threadbare carpet. “'Cause it's gone walkabout. No one knows where. Apparently it was in evidence lock-up one night, gone the next morning.” Dean gave an exaggerated shrug.

 

“What?” Sam pinched his brows. “It was just gone?”

 

“Last person into the evidence room was some officer called Erikson. Never turned up for his shift today.” Dean grew serious as he met Sam's gaze.

 

“So, we go look for him, right?” The younger Winchester shot his brother a superior glance and began to rise from the bed.

 

“Well, thank you, Captain _Obvious_!” Dean glared back, irritated, as always, by the implied slight against his intelligence. “I already checked out his apartment. Dude wasn't there. None of his neighbours remember seein' him since yesterday. No clue where he is.”

 

“Wait, you were just gonna go there alone and–?” Sam flopped back down, spearing his big brother with an angry, parental glower.

 

“I'm a big boy, Sammy!” Dean interrupted, in no mood to deal with irritating, over-protective little brothers. “I can tie my own shoelaces and everything!” Seeing another impending bitchface, he attempted to head it off at the pass. “Look Sam, we don't know if this guy even took the mask, or if the mask is even cursed. There wasn't any point in draggin' you away from geekboy heaven for a chat with Cap'n McCluskey.”

 

Sam seemed somewhat mollified by this, though a glint of frustration lingered in his gaze. “Okay, fine. But you gotta admit...a woman gets a mask in her possession – I'm guessing she probably bought it at the garage sale – then drives herself and her kids off a cliff,  _then_ it disappears from evidence lock-up, along with the last guy to see it...It sounds a little weird, right? What if this mask  _is_ cursed?”

 

“Could be,” Dean nodded, “guess you'll need to get your geek on and find out!”

 

“With what, Dean? Because Arkadelphia cops can apparently just empty the evidence locker whenever they want–”

 

“I got a photo, Sam,” Dean's voice was calm and quiet as he interrupted, narrowly averting disaster.

 

“You–Wait, what?”

 

“I got Brandi to copy a photo of the mask they found. I _can_ do research too, you know,” he finished, a little more huffily than he'd intended.

 

“Uh, well...” Sam looked at him in helplessness for several seconds, a vague, unvoiced apology fogging his eyes. “Give it here!” He snatched the photo easily from Dean's loose grip, and the elder hunter let him; he'd already examined the mask at length.

 

Sam's pupils dotted from side to side as he examined the photo. Dean had already studied it at length: the roughly-hewn, weathered wood, almost green in the bright light of the camera flash; the shape reminding him of a theatre-mask, pointed chin and squared-off forehead; the grimacing mouth with bared, pointy teeth; the primitive, jagged zig-zags that patterned its edges.

 

“Well, I guess I have to agree with Brandi,” Sam glanced up, meeting Dean's eyes. “Thing looks pretty friggin' old.”

 

“Yeah. But you know, I kinda feel like I've seen it before...” Dean began, a smile starting somewhere deep. He'd wanted to have fun with this the instant he'd laid eyes on the photo.

 

“You do?” Sam's brow bunched up quizzically. Then he saw the twinkle in his brother's eyes, and just like that, it dawned on him. Zero to bitchface in less than a millisecond. The psychic wonder knew exactly what Dean was thinking, and exactly what the next few days were going to bring. 

 

Dean's grin finally made it to his face.

 

“No. _Don't_ say it Dean. I _hated_ that movie!” 

 

_Sorry, Sammy, too good an opportunity to waste._

 

“Ssssssmmmooookin!” Dean grinned, Cheshire-style. And just had time to duck the lobbed pillow.

 

 

 


	2. The Mall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a special thank you goes to my friend Sharlot for her awesome beta work on this story. I've made a few changes since she worked her magic, so any mistakes are mine.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

**Chapter 2 – The Mall**

 

Dean started into alertness as the opening riff of  _Money for Nothing_ growled into the silence of the Impala's interior. Not that Dean had fallen asleep, or anything. Nope. He'd been completely committed to the job...

 

And his coffee had run out an hour ago.

 

He'd been staking out Erikson's apartment for the better part of the night, a veritable feast for the eyes which had included a skittering raccoon, a drunk slaloming his way from lamppost to lamppost and an overheard argument from a couple on the third floor of the brickwork building. That last one had been interesting enough – Dean reckoned the dude would be on the couch for a couple of days – otherwise, the night's entertainment had been soporific at best.

 

_This better be good_ , he muttered to himself as he hefted his phone to his ear. He'd been enjoying a dreamland rendezvous at the Playboy mansion. Minus Hef. Not that he'd been asleep, of course. “Yeah,” he meant to drawl, but it came out in a jaw-cracking yawn. Smooth.

 

“Sleeping on the job?” Sam was halfway between amused and irritated.

 

“Might as well be,” Dean sighed. “Scopin' zero here, dude.”

 

“Out of caffeine, huh?” A mocking sympathy. The little bastard.

 

“This a social call, Sammy? Or have you actually been earnin' your keep?” So Dean was cranky when he'd had neither sleep nor coffee. Sue him.

 

“Hold on a second, Dean. Coffee's just about ready!” There was a crackle, some shuffling and the clinking of a mug. “Ahhh, that's better!” The words were shaped like a smile.

 

“Saammmm....” Dean let out a threatening growl, wishing it was possible to reach through the cell receiver and smack the kid upside the head.

 

“Alright, alright!” Sam chuckled, and then ruffled some papers. “I think I found our mask.”

 

“You have?” Dean raised his eyebrows, impressed. There was nothing his little brother couldn't ferret out when it came to research. 

 

“I cross-referenced the mask's description with the snippets of speech we got from Marsha Parrish's husband–”

 

_Jeez, he made it sound so friggin' easy!_

 

“This thing is Aztec, Dean. Aztec!” Dean could picture his brother practically bouncing up and down on the spot with excitement. It was something the kid had done for as long as he could remember. He had a fleeting memory of a six year old Sammy fidgeting and stamping his feet on the motel floor as he waited to show his big brother the prize-winning project he'd just brought back from school. He smiled, recalling the way Sammy's eyes had danced. Their father, of course, had done little more than toss a dismissive grunt at it. Then he'd trudged out into the night.

 

Dean's smile vanished.

 

“The language...I couldn't work out the exact phrase, but I picked out a couple of words that could have been 'death' and 'kill',” Sam, oblivious to Dean's whistle-stop tour down memory lane, was continuing in the background, voice vibrating with excitement. 

 

“Good work, Sammy,” Dean felt his lips curve upwards once more as he gave the desired response. Some things never changed. “So...this thing's cursed?”

 

“Yeah, but way more powerful than we've ever seen before. This is ancient stuff, Dean. Friggin' _Aztec_ ancient,” he qualified with scholarly aplomb, as if Dean hadn't heard him the first time. “God only knows how it ended up with that old lady, but I'm willing to bet it was kept in some kinda curse box.”

 

Dean nodded to himself, it made sense.

 

“The curse was supposed to bring death and destruction to the wearer and those around them. It's a little like demonic possession, the more emotionally vulnerable the person was, the more quickly it worked.” Sam continued. “It was designed to bring about the wearer's inner fears in the most violent way possible, and in those days where military power was everything...Well, you give one to an opposing leader, and watch the whole army implode.”

 

“Jesus,” Dean murmured, vision darkening as he imagined blood, burning and screams.

 

“This thing might be over five hundred years old, Dean. We've never dealt with a curse that ancient before. Who knows how it might have gotten corrupted over the years?” Sam's voice was filled with horrified awe. 

 

“Yeah, that's a comfortin' thought,” Dean scrubbed a hand across his chin. He shifted in his seat, well aware that if he stumbled across Erikson now, he'd have no clue what he was getting himself into. That, and he _needed_ to stumble across Erikson right the hell now, or some serious crap was about to go down. “You got any idea how to neutralise this thing?”

 

A heavy, weary sigh. “Not yet. But I'm working on it. I called Bobby again, got him working on it too.” There was a pensive silence, and Dean could sense that his brother was building up to something. “This guy is like a ticking time bomb, Dean. I kinda feel like we should do something, alert the cops or...”

 

“And tell them what, Sam?”

 

A pause.

 

“Yeah, that's what I thought.” Dean sighed, “look, it doesn't sit easy with me either, but we don't have a choice.” He leaned his head back and clenched his eyes shut, hoping it would stop the tiredness from whiting out his vision. “So, what do we do about it?”

 

There was an uneasy silence.

 

“I haven't exactly figured that out yet,” Sam admitted, and Dean could visualise him running an agitated hand through that unruly mop he called hair. “But Bobby's got his eye on this too. Hopefully between us we can dig something up.”

 

“Wish it was as _easy_ as diggin' somethin' up!” Dean snorted, thinking fondly of how simple their hunting lives used to be. _A nice, easy Salt'n'Burn...Those were the days._

 

“Yeah,” came the quiet agreement.

 

“Well, at least we know one thing...” Dean began, hoping to blast away the thick fog of tension that hung over the cellular airwaves. 

 

“Oh yeah, what's that?” Sam Winchester, innocent as ever.

 

“This thing is shapin' up more and more like–”

 

“Dean, I swear to god, if you say _somebody stop me_ one more time, that picture of you kissing the Kenny Loggins poster is going on the internet!” Sam all but howled, clearly at the end of his tether. Then again, Dean _had_ been quoting lines from _The Mask_ all evening before he'd left to stakeout Erikson's place, and that had been before he'd started periodically texting them to Sam as soon as he'd parked the Impala. Hell, he'd had to pass the time some way.

 

The elder man froze as he realised what his brother had just threatened. “You promised you wouldn't!” he whined. “It wasn't my fault that friggin' ghost was a die-hard fan!”

 

“Can't claim ghost-possession once that gets out, dude.” Sam was not to be budged.

 

“Fine!” Dean spat, annoyed that his little brother had seen fit to spoil his fun. “Bitch,” he muttered, and not kindly.

 

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Sam returned smugly, ending it with a supercilious “jerk!”

 

Dean rolled his eyes, already readying his thumb to end the call.

 

“Dean!” His thumb hovered, halted by the soft urgency in Sam's voice.

 

“Yeah?” He grumbled.

 

“If Erikson shows, you call me, alright?” _Yes, mom._

 

“Sure, Sam,” It was an easy lie.

 

“I mean it, Dean.” Why did Sam always see through him so quickly? “We still don't know what this guy is capable of, never mind the fact that we don't have a clue how to deal with this mask once we get our hands on it.” 

 

“Okay, Sam!” He relented, throwing his free hand up even though Sam would neither see nor appreciate the gesture.

 

“Good. Oh, and no more falling asleep, dude!”

 

Dammit, the little bitch had hung up before Dean had a chance to respond. He glared at the phone in disgust before tossing it down onto the passenger seat.

 

He glanced at his watch – three AM – and sighed. It was going to be a long night.

 

o0o0o

 

It was the slamming of the apartment door that woke him properly this time. Dean jerked in his seat with a scratchy groan, automatically raising a hand to rub at the knot of tension in the back of his neck. He felt as if he'd swallowed a carpet, his water having gone the same way as the coffee several hours previously. He gave his head a rough shake, vision blurring momentarily as his brain recalibrated.

 

And then he saw him.

 

“Well, well, well...” Dean murmured. His eyes followed Erikson as he shuffled with ominous purpose towards a murky, crap-coloured Ford sitting a hundred metres down the street. The car looked as dozy as Dean felt.

 

Dean kicked himself. Dammit, Erikson had nearly been in and out without him even noticing. The kid was going to love this.  _Sonofabitch!_ It was lucky Erikson's exit hadn't been nearly as stealthy as his entrance. All friggin' night Dean had needed buttresses to prop his eyes open and the bastard had managed in and out as soon as he'd fallen asleep. He checked his watch: ten thirty. Jeez, a lot later than he'd thought.

 

He turned his gaze back to Erikson, determined that he wasn't going to screw up this time. The man was carrying a large black duffel which swung in time to his unsteady gait. It looked heavy. The cop's clothes dripped from his wiry frame as he moved, his jeans scruffy and torn, his flapping shirt grey and mucky. Hair rumpled, a couple of days of overcast stubble and a twitching mouth. All he needed was a styrofoam cup and Dean would have stopped to give him a dollar.

 

Erikson stared straight ahead blankly, looking unaware and vague. Dean's hand went to his gun, checking for the umpteenth time that it was still there and still within easy reach. He paused, uneasy. Should he take the guy down right now? Before Erikson had the chance to do anything?

 

The hunter had his hand on the Impala's door handle, ready to open, but a mother was meandering on the sidewalk across from him, her two little girls scampering and giggling, wielding lurid-coloured plastic ponies. Further down, an elderly couple were marching along, putting the world to rights as they gesticulated and opined about the state of today's Arkadelphia.

 

Erikson had reached his own car and was getting in. Dean sighed, his muscles unclenching minutely. He was more than a little relieved. He didn't even know for certain that Erikson still had the mask. No, he couldn't do anything until he knew the man was definitely dangerous.

 

Besides, Sam was right; even if he got the mask, what the hell would he do with it? He wanted to think he wouldn't be affected by it like Erikson and the others, but he knew enough about supernatural objects and had experienced too many of them to let his own pride get in the way.

 

He waited until Erikson had driven past him before he roared the Impala to life and pulled away from the kerb. The older couple shot him twin scowls as he screeched past.

 

“Show time,” he told the Impala as they pursued their target. The Chevy seemed to rumble in agreement. “That's my girl!” He grinned.

 

Dean could have called his little brother there and then. Of course he could have –  _should_ have, in fact. But the elder Winchester would forever maintain that he didn't have his cell handy until the journey was well under way, or indeed, until it was over. In any case, what would be the point in calling Sam when Dean didn't know exactly where Erikson was going. He followed the Ford's unhurried pace for several miles, always trying to stay a couple of cars behind – not that Erikson was likely to be paying much attention – until signs for the local mall started popping up like corporate weeds. 

 

The elder Winchester pitched his brows. What the hell did Harvey Keitel want at the mall?

 

Sure enough, the rusted up clunker took the next exit off the freeway and turned into the mall complex; a sprawling metropolis of gleaming glass and luminous white buildings flanked by rolling suburbs of parking lots. Dean normally avoided such places, unable to handle the oestrogen overdose, but it was an endless source of amusement that Sam seemed to manage just fine. This time, however, Dean was more edgy. It would be too easy to lose Erikson here. The cop could immerse himself in the hordes of shoppers before Dean had time to blink, and the hunter had a bad feeling that he was about to do just that.

 

For once, Winchester luck was smiling on him, however, and he found a parking space just one row over from where Erikson had haphazardly manoeuvred the Ford. Dean slithered out of the Impala, pulling out his cell as he did so, and stalked after the cop. Erikson was still carrying the duffel, the sight oddly chilling and portentous. Dean spied several young families also heading in the direction of the mall entrance and shuddered.

 

“Yeah?” Sam sounded bleary when he answered Dean's call. Clearly the kid had also indulged in a lie in that morning.

 

“I got 'im,” Dean announced quietly, gaze never leaving the straight-legged zombie shuffle of his target as they weaved through the mosaic of cars tiling the lot. 

 

“What?” All traces of tiredness evaporated. “He came back to the apartment?”

 

If Dean could have groaned aloud, he would have. “No, dude, he  _left_ the apartment.”

 

“But–” 

 

“I musta missed him going in, Sammy, but I got him comin' out,” Dean skipped past his monumental screw-up, focussing on giving his brother the most important information. “Followed him to the, uh...” he glanced at the mall sign, even though he'd seen a million of them pass by while tailing Erikson. “Riverfield Mall.”

 

“What?” How did Sam manage to make a bitchface out of one word? It was anger, frustration and concern all rolled into one. Dean was sure his brother was going to give himself a hernia one of these days. “What do you mean, you _followed_ him to the mall? What the hell happened to 'Sure, Sam, I'll call you as soon as I see him'?” 

 

That was actually a pretty good impression, Dean would have to give him that.

 

“Aw quit your bitchin' Sam!” was what he said instead. He squinted as the sun's glare bounced off the mall's enormous glass frontage and hit him square in the eye, temporarily losing him sight of his mark. “There wasn't time. 'Sides, I'm callin' you _now_ aren't I?”

 

“Dean–” Sam's tone told him in no uncertain terms that he was in deep trouble when his little brother got hold of him, but Dean cut neatly across him. He'd deal with that later.

 

“Sam, he's headin' inside, and I don't know what he's plannin', but it can't be good. I'll keep an eye on him, but you need to get your ass over here!” Erikson didn't even pause at the dizzying array of signs and storefronts as they passed through the revolving door, while Dean frowned a little in disorientation. Women were pushing past him in droves, many dragging poor, reluctant men behind them, men who gazed longingly at the exit. Dean could relate. He friggin' hated malls.

 

“Yeah? And how am I supposed to do that?” Sam snapped in irritation, but there was movement crackling down the line; the kid was gathering supplies, probably throwing on his jacket and galumphing out of the motel room.

 

“I dunno, steal a freakin' car, Sam!” Dean hissed, wincing as several shoppers cast a suspicious eye in his direction. “Use that college brain of yours.”

 

The elder hunter continued to follow Erikson through the shifting crowds, stepping onto the escalator just as the cop reached the top and strode from view once more. He cursed under his breath, his argument with Sam had cost him valuable time.

 

“I don't believe this!” His little brother was still freaking out in the background. Girl.

 

“Sam, just get here!” Dean demanded, barely suppressing his frustration. “Oh, and make sure you're packin'.” He added, sotto voce, ending the call before the kid could argue further and hurrying up the remainder of the escalator stairs. He ran a gauntlet of shopping bags and packages, narrowly avoiding being decapitated by a swinging purse but taking a direct hit to his thigh from a jabbing walking-stick. When he reached the top, he whipped his head to and fro, trying to catch sight of Erikson. 

 

To his left, a group of pockmarked, pasty teenagers were having a slouched conference over a Starbucks breakfast. To his right, an harried-looking couple were sitting down with a McDonald's breakfast, trying to shush their wailing child. By Pavlovian conditioning, Dean's stomach instantly started rumbling, but he ignored it as he looked beyond strollers, walker-frames and brightly-lit storefronts. There was no sign of Erikson.

 

Dammit, he'd lost him. He'd freakin' lost him!

 

And that was when the first shot rang out.

 

 

o0o0o

 

There was no moment of silence, no shocked pause or paralysed intake of breath. The screams were instantaneous.

 

A split second later and it was pandemonium; the crowds of shoppers scattering and stampeding like startled cattle, the thundering of their feet drumming in time to the ringing in Dean's ears. The elder hunter pivoted wildly, trying to locate Erikson, who surely had to be the shooter, but his view was obscured by whipping hair, bludgeoning shopping bags and a blur of multi-coloured clothing as the crowds fled. The sea of terrified faces seemed to get faster and more indistinct as mass hysteria set in.

 

Dean barely had time to draw breath before another shot rang out, then another. And another.

 

_Holy crap!_ He felt his heart explode into overdrive, his blood rushing distractingly in his ears. He had to do something. The more people ran, the easier they were to target. Erikson had hundreds of people pulled together into the largest sitting duck Dean had ever seen.

 

“Get down!” he yelled, “Get down!” He could hear his cries echoed by a security guard several hundred metres away, gun already drawn and spinning like a compass needle. Some of the shoppers heeded the warning and ducked into nearby shops, or behind planters and benches, their horrified gasps and squeals filling the static air. Many others continued to flee, however, and Dean swore. He wanted to get his own gun out, but it was too risky with the trigger-happy guards running around. He needed to get to the cursed cop, and fast. But first he needed to actually locate him.

 

Cover. He had to find cover. He was fast becoming a sitting duck himself the longer he stayed on the main mall thoroughfare. Desperate, Dean swung his head back and forth, trying to see anywhere that wasn't already crammed full of people. Another shot cracked out, shattering a shop window somewhere behind him and setting off a blaring, pulsing alarm.

 

Now knowing for sure the direction the bullets were coming from, Dean turned and began hurrying towards a free-standing stall selling trinkets and novelty cell phone covers. Two men were peering out from behind it, staring wide-eyed at him as he made his dash to safety. He was about five metres away when a bullet whined past him and struck an elderly man, felling him instantly, blood splaying out onto the pale, tiled flooring beneath his prone form.

 

“Sonofabitch!” Dean growled through gritted teeth, skidding to a halt and backtracking to the fallen man. He ducked another bullet, feeling its heat sear the top of his head as he moved. Dropping to his knees beside the injured man, he grabbed for a pulse as bullets continued to fly. “Hey! Can you hear me!” He called into the man's ear as he felt the ropey pulse beneath his fingertips. Receiving no response, he gulped, knowing he was going to have to drag the man out of the line of fire.

 

He took a precious second to scan his surroundings. Some people were still attempting to run, others were peeping out fearfully from makeshift hiding places, others still had been hit but were being tended to by guards and brave civilians. For the old man, Dean was his only hope. He threaded his hands through the man's armpits and lifted his upper body as much as he dared, beginning to edge him backwards with slow steps.

 

The young hunter grunted with exertion. As wispy as the older man had looked, he was a hell of a lot heavier in the flesh. Dean hauled him towards the stall, glancing backwards to be sure of his path. He could see that the two men there were watching him intently, joined by several others; ready and waiting to receive Dean's wounded burden.

 

Close, so close now. But several paces from relative safety, Dean's boots slithered on something wet on the ground.  _Blood?_ he thought instantly, and stumbled, the injured man nearly slipping from his grip. 

 

Dean took just a second too long to recover.

 

When the bullet slammed into his shoulder, it was more of a dull thud than a searing burn. But it sent him reeling backwards with a surprised “Guh!” The back of his head rebounded off the floor with a crack, sending a shower of sparks shooting across his vision. Then a strange paralysis seemed to take over, seemed to leaden his limbs and turn his thoughts to sludge. Everything dimmed, the world around him fading. For several moments he didn't know where he was, or who he was, or _why_ he was. Then there was pain, a gathering crescendo of white hot agony that picked up speed with every passing second. His shoulder ignited and a fault-line of pain cleaved his skull.

 

It took his breath away, and he gasped helplessly. But one thought shone through the fog in his mind: he needed to get away. He couldn't afford to waste a second.

 

He started to move, to push himself up, but he was too slow. Shots continued to rain down and he stalled, dazed, trying to figure out which way to turn. Then multiple hands were grabbing at him, pulling him backwards. The effect on the gunshot wound fuzzed his vision out and he fought to keep his eyes open as he was dragged, his gaze drifting heavenwards. And that was when he saw him, Erikson, now a floor up, gun mercilessly in hand. 

 

The grotesque mask covering his face.

 

It was his last coherent image before his eyes fluttered closed, and it was one he knew he'd never forget.

 

 


	3. The Hospital

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thanks goes to Sharlot, who waved her beta wand over this chapter. This story is so much better off for her insights, patience and encouragement. I've made some changes to this chapter since she sent me her notes so any remaining mistakes are all mine. 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

o0o0o

 

Sam Winchester was furious.

 

Taking his rage out on the car was an option he'd seriously considered. _If_ said car had been the Impala. But said car was _not_ the Impala. It was some poor schmuck's suburb-mobile, one that Sam had misappropriated from a nearby lot. All because Dean had gone and done what Sam had just known he would go and do. He felt his anger bubble again, making his knuckles clench on the steering wheel of the nondescript moss green Hyundai he'd hot-wired. He felt a near Hulk-like desire to explode with a roar and tear the whole thing to shreds.

 

But, he shook his head, fighting to relax his grip, poor old Merv didn't deserve that. Merv apparently being the name of the car, if the bumper sticker was anything to go by. Sam had a fleeting thought that maybe Dean and Merv's owner weren't so different. Except for the fact that Dean wouldn't have been seen salted and burned in a car like Merv.

 

Sam set his jaw, worry easily washing over his anger and almost sweeping it away. Almost. Dean had sounded urgent on the phone, and Sam had spent a lifetime learning to hear the things his brother didn't say. The louder Dean's protest, the less he cared. The elder Winchester would bitch and moan for days if Sam got the wrong kind of pie, or – heaven forbid – if he forgot to get pie at all. No, it was when Dean got sketchy that Sam started to worry.

 

Like now. As usual, Dean was where the danger was. The younger Winchester exhaled heavily, glowering at the slow moving car in front. Jeez, even walking would have gotten him there quicker. His hand hovered over the horn.

 

Sam had no idea what Erikson was going to do, but it was unlikely to be an act of kindness. The mask was supposed to reflect the wearer's inner fears, violently. Acts that were against everything they believed in, everything they stood for. Marsha Parrish had killed herself and her three beautiful children by steering her car off a cliff edge. Who knew what Erikson would be forced to do?

 

Sam swallowed nervously. He had to get to that mall, and fast.

 

His hovering hand slammed down on the horn, giving three short blasts. The car in front wavered and then hastily changed lanes. Sam might have smirked if his thoughts hadn't already been racing ahead, focussed on getting to his brother.

 

When police cars and ambulances started overtaking just a few minutes later, Sam knew things had just turned apocalyptic. His heart slammed painfully against his ribcage, his muscles turning shaky with rising fear as he floored Merv's gas pedal and surged forward in pursuit of the emergency vehicles. He didn't want to think about what that meant, or about what he might find when he got to the mall.

 

Or Dean...

 

He considered calling his big brother, but if Dean was in the middle of something, a mistimed ringtone could mean disaster.

 

Sam flicked on the radio, hoping to catch a bulletin as he weaved and dodged through the traffic. The fuzzy reception filled Merv's interior.

 

“–police and paramedics are now at the scene, but it's still not known whether the gunman has been apprehended–,” An excited male newscaster was breathlessly announcing.

 

_No, no, no!_ Sam gulped down a breath, blinking harshly at the confirmation of his fears.

 

“If you've just tuned in,” The man began again, voice vibrating with growing hysteria. “We have some breaking news: A masked gunman entered Riverfield mall at approximately 10.45 this morning and opened fire on shoppers. Survivors who managed to escape the mall described the scene as a 'massacre', telling us they'd seen countless victims who were seriously injured. We don't have any details about fatalities at this point, but police and paramedics are now at the scene.”

 

Sam swore and thumped his fist against Merv's steering wheel. _Damn, Dean. Damn him!_ They should have been in there together, not one brother in the line of fire and the other waiting desperately on the sidelines. Dean had better be okay. He'd just better be. Or god help him, if Dean had gotten himself shot, Sam would go ahead and finish the job.

 

The younger Winchester punched at the radio, cutting off the newscaster's panicked speech midway through. He didn't need anything else to fan the flames of his own fear. He allowed Merv to put on a burst of speed and began overtaking the car in front, deciding that the police had bigger fish to fry than a speeding Hyundai.

 

The traffic around the mall was turgid and chaotic, but most of it was going the other way, trying to escape from the complex. Sam's path to the parking lot was far from clear, but the convoy of emergency vehicles had blazed a discernible trail for him to follow. No effort had yet been made to close off the road, and Sam was confident it would stay that way to allow police and paramedics a way of circumventing the avalanche of traffic surging in the opposite direction. Making his job a lot easier.

 

By the time he'd managed to navigate his way into the mall parking lot – were all mall road systems this labyrinthine? – the front of the main building was obscured by a haze of red and blue lights which flickered and flashed like fireworks. Cars and vans were scattered this way and that, like fallen dominoes. A swelling throng of onlookers was being kept at bay by several harried officers.

 

Sam parked as close as he could get, spotting the Impala several rows down, pulses of red and blue reflecting off her gleaming hood. The sight made swallowing difficult for several beats as something tightened in his chest. Sam swerved to take a detour past the car, giving her a firm, reassuring pat as he went. He'd be back. Dean too.

 

Reaching the back of the crowd, Sam tapped the shoulder of an overall-clad, beefy man with a backwards baseball cap perched atop his greasy head.

 

“They get him?” The younger Winchester asked as steadily as he could, his heart in his mouth.

 

“Looks that way,” the Southern drawl made the statement sound like a lazy, afternoon sports report rather than the serious situation it was. “Shot dead.”

 

Sam nodded his thanks, suddenly unable to form words as the tide of dread receded ever so slightly. He began working his way to the front of the crowd, feeling the reassuring presence of his FBI badge in his pocket should he need it to expedite his progress. He bulldozed his way through clusters of looky-loos craning their necks for a good glimpse, but manoeuvred more gently past the worried onlookers, hands covering their faces, their mouths hanging open. Sam could feel their pain.

 

Eventually managing to reach the cordon itself, the younger Winchester finally got a clear view of the scene. Some scattered police officers were conferring in a huddle next to a larger riot van, others were running hands through hair and tiredly sticking fingers in eye sockets, their expressions vacant and traumatised. Paramedics were loading up a waiting ambulance with urgent calm, their barked snippets of conversation just out of earshot to the waiting horde. Sam's eyes zig-zagged the busy tableau, looking for any sign of his brother. But Dean could have been anywhere. Hell, Dean could have been in the crowd somewhere with him.

 

But Sam just had a feeling.

 

And when he saw the next stretcher emerge through the glass doors, he knew his instincts had been right. He'd have recognised that spiky head anywhere.

 

“Dean!” He blurted, his chest imploding as he saw the blood even from a distance. _No, no!_ He was throwing the police tape over his head before he could even process what he'd just seen. “Dean!” One of the crowd control officers was on him in a flash, hands raised in warning or placation, Sam couldn't tell. Didn't care.

 

“My brother. My _brother_!” Sam insisted, frantically pointing at Dean, who was swiftly being wheeled towards another waiting ambulance.

 

The officer, plainly seeing his distress, nodded tightly and allowed him passage. A good thing, really, because the younger Winchester had been seconds away from decking him.

 

Sam sprinted across the open space, eyes only for the stretcher, and the pale figure strapped to it. “Dean!” He called again, seeing his brother blinking sluggishly as he neared.

 

“Sam?” Came the weak, pained response as the younger man reached his side. Dean looked terrible; his face so milky pale it was almost translucent, his eyes dulled with pain. His upper chest drenched in blood.

 

“Hey, hey!” Sam breathed out, relief buckling his knees as he tried to keep up with moving gurney. Dean was alive, that one fact completely obscuring everything else. But he'd clearly taken a shot to the shoulder, sticky clumps of gore caking his shirt to an alarming extent. Nevertheless, Sam's own eye, trained to assess injuries through years of experience, told him that it wasn't life threatening. Not now that he was heading to hospital.

 

The paramedics were polite but detached, giving Sam a pointed stare but otherwise allowing his presence as he jogged alongside. He nodded back, his gaze returning to examine his brother.

 

“Took you long enough,” Dean croaked, a tired smirk lifting one corner of his mouth. “Missed one hell of a party, Sammy.”

 

Sam could have made any number of unimpressed, exasperated responses, but couldn't find the will. Breathing normally still felt like more than enough for his fraught nerves to cope with. “You're going to be okay,” was all he managed. “We're going to get you to the hospital.”

 

He looked up at the nearest paramedic. “I'll be riding with you.”

 

“No he won't,” Dean overrode him, raising an objecting palm. He shot Sam a significant, beckoning glance and the younger man leaned in as close as he could.

 

“What is it? Are you okay?” Sam felt his pulse speed up again.

 

“You need to get the mask, Sam,” Dean whispered, sounding strained. “Before someone else does.”

 

Sam was instantly shaking his head. “What? No, way, I'm coming with you, Dean. You've been shot!”

 

“I know, Sam. I _was_ there!” Dean rolled his eyes in irritation, a mere gunshot wound not enough to dampen his exasperation. “You _need_ to get that mask!”

 

“Dean–” Sam began another protest.

 

“Sir–” The paramedic began a different protest as they skidded to a halt beside the waiting ambulance.

 

“Just a couple more seconds?” Dean pleaded up at the frustrated woman.

 

“You have as long as it takes us to get things set up inside,” she warned him with a disapproving huff.

 

Dean sighed and nodded back, his attention returning to his brother. “I'll be fine, Sam.” He insisted, his unconvincing effort ruined when he coughed painfully, wincing as he tried to recover. Sam was about to step in and make an executive decision when he felt Dean tugging weakly at his jacket sleeve.

 

“You said yourself, I'm on my way to the hospital.” Dean maintained, his gaze unwavering. “There's nothing you can do there. You have to fix my screw up, Sammy. You have to get that mask!”

 

“Dean...” The last thing Sam wanted was for Dean to take the blame again, but he knew his big brother was right about one thing: they had to stop the mask from disappearing again. But dammit...he didn't have to be happy about it.

 

“Fine!” He grunted, curtly releasing his grip on the stretcher. “But you'd better be waiting for me when I'm done.” He hoped Dean was awake enough to catch his meaning. _No springing yourself from your bed without my say so!_

 

Dean let out a feeble snort in response, and Sam realised it was all he was going to get. “I'll see you soon,” Sam promised, needing every fibre of his being to keep him standing still while his big brother was lifted into the ambulance.

 

“Be careful, Sammy.” It was just a whisper, but its warmth kept Sam going all the same.

 

o0o0o

 

 

Dean was still in surgery when Sam skidded, empty-handed, into the ER reception area.

 

The younger Winchester knew he looked like he'd been dragged backwards through a thick hedge, all wild-eyed and electrostatic hair, which was probably why the standard issue, bored-looking receptionist nearly fell out of her standard issue swivel chair as soon as she laid eyes on him. Recovering herself embarrassedly, she'd smoothed down her coffee-stained blouse, shooting him a standard issue smile that was watery and over-practised.

 

Sam had been in no mood for small talk, setting eyes on Dean as quickly as possible being his top priority since he'd allowed his brother to be lifted into the ambulance and out of his sight back at the mall. That had been well over two hours earlier, and Sam was champing at the bit. Even though he wasn't looking forward to giving Dean the bad news he'd brought with him.

 

The receptionist – Ayleen, as her nametag cheerfully chirped – had twirled a peroxide strand of hair around a garishly manicured talon as she'd looked up Dean's information. Taking her sweet time. Sam had tried not to shuffle and huff and clear his throat. He'd tried, but Ayleen had narrowed her eyes all the same.

 

Eventually she'd told Sam his brother was in the OR on level two, that he'd been in for about an hour and a half, and that she had no idea when he'd be out. Dr. Moncrieff was the surgeon leading the procedure, though Ayleen could give him no information about the nature or seriousness of the surgery. She'd merely shrugged, as if life or death moments were no more out of the ordinary than a stationary order or a weather forecast, and told Sam he could sit in the waiting area on level two. Dr. Moncrieff would see him there.

 

Sam had barely paused to grab the standard issue paperwork before he was off down the hall, jabbing on the elevator button and tapping his foot in impatience until it arrived. He ran out of steam as soon as he reached the waiting area. It was about as dull and nondescript as every other waiting area Sam had ever been in – and he'd been in a lot. Mostly because Dean had taken it upon himself to play hero. He snorted softly, some things never changed.

 

There was an apologetic pot plant shrugging its leafy shoulders in one corner, a small, chipped formica table bearing a knitting magazine, what looked like yesterday's newspaper, a motoring magazine, and several tattered women's weeklies in another. Just what a person wanted when they were waiting for the guillotine to drop.

 

The younger Winchester glanced around, taking note of his new companions. An elderly man flicked listlessly through one of the women's weeklies; Sam doubted he was even reading. A mother clutched a bewildered-looking child, who turned wide, suspicious eyes on Sam as he approached. There was a rumpled, middle aged man in the corner next to the plant, his face as grey as his hair. All were sitting at least a chair apart. Standard issue.

 

Sam nodded at them in solidarity before gingerly taking a seat, making sure to maintain the regulation distance. He stared at the paperwork in front of him, his eyes blurring. Clearing his throat, clearing his thoughts, he clicked the pen he'd been given and began filling in as much as he could. He had no idea what name Dean had given, knowing he'd just have to wait until the surgeon came looking. The rest of it he could do by rote.

 

He'd had a hard time arguing to be let into the mall after Dean had been whisked away, the puffed-up, over efficient sergeant manning the entrance more than a little reluctant to let him duck underneath the second cordon. The swarthy man had shaken his fleshy jowls at Sam, giving a Churchill-esque grumble and telling the young hunter that he'd have to wait for authorisation. But eventually Sam had waved his FBI badge around, telling him that the mask belonged to the Mexican authorities and had been stolen and sold on the black market. Grim-faced, the sergeant had finally nodded him through, and Sam had hurried inside, wanting to get the mask quickly and get back to Dean.

 

Bodies were still being wheeled out in crumpled black bags and Sam had needed to step aside to let them pass. He'd felt a shudder ripple through him, the reminder of how close Dean had come to death yet again making him nauseous. Someone's world would be collapsing that day, he'd just been glad it wasn't his.

 

The horrific scene that met his eyes still felt surreal even in memory. The mall had been echoey and oppressive, the occasional shouted command ricocheting around the cavernous space as forensic teams patrolled and swabbed. Shattered glass glittered the tiled flooring and crunched underneath his boots while gaping shop windows curved inwards like gasping mouths. There had been blood everywhere; splattered on walls, puddled and oozing on the floor, shiny and sticky. Which spatter had been Dean's? He'd wondered, nausea curdling in his stomach.

 

He'd jogged up the escalators, in a hurry to find the spot where Erikson had been taken down. He hadn't wanted to remain in the building longer than he had to, the smell of blood and death clogging the air. His brother too had been on his mind, Sam constantly wondering what was happening to him, if he was okay.

 

Erikson's body had been left where it had fallen, a trio of forensic crime scene officers surrounding him, picking at him like scavengers. Arms and legs splayed, the cursed cop looked as if he'd been trying to make a snow angel on the floor. His torso was polka-dotted with bullet wounds, the blood coalescing into a giant stain that had turned tacky and viscous. His face had been grimacing, eyes wide and terrified. His face...

 

Sam had seen instantly that the mask was gone, and he'd picked up his pace, something heavy dropping into the pit of his stomach. He'd marched across to the officers, flapping his badge into each face and demanding to know what had happened to the mask. The forensics team had merely gawped at him, telling him that they'd seen no such thing. They'd heard the reports from the shoppers and security guards, but there had been no mask present when they'd arrived at the scene.

 

The younger Winchester had felt a vein throbbing dangerously in his temple, but he'd managed to keep hold of his anger – this _couldn't_ all have been for nothing – and had asked whether the mask could have been removed as evidence. He'd been assured that nothing should have been disturbed until the preliminaries had been done. Heck, the body hadn't even been bagged. Meaning that the mask was now missing. Again.

 

Sam sighed at the memory, shifting in his plastic chair as he searched – fruitlessly, he knew from experience – for some comfort. The middle-aged man raised his eyebrows in sympathy before hastily averting his eyes, as if that one act of communication had been too much. Sam ran a hand across his features, tugging down at them. He hated this.

 

He'd managed to get a copy of the mall's security tapes before it occurred to the police that they might be important, but he hadn't wanted to spend the time going through them there and then. He'd just wanted to get back to Dean. Being around all the blood and devastation had been making him antsy, making him want to see for himself that his brother was really okay. The urge had pulled at him more heavily with every step, as if a length of stretched bungee cord held him attached to Dean.

 

The tapes could wait, he'd decided, and Dean would be there to help him. He'd hoped.

 

“Family for Dean Clapton?” A weary voice interrupted Sam's reverie and he leapt up from his chair, over-balancing in his haste. A firm arm came out to steady him, and he looked down at the petite redhead in scrubs who had apparently broken his fall. “You alright there?” She checked, giving him a brisk, assessing look. Doctors. Constantly triaging.

 

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Sam breathlessly waved away her concern, nodding so vigorously it made his vision streak. “Thanks.” _Just get to the point!_

 

“No problem. I'm Doctor Moncrieff,” She motioned to him to move away from the small gathering in the waiting area, where the others were starting to watch curiously. The surgeon had sharp, defined features, a perma-frown furrowing her brow, but her eyes softened when she took in Sam's bedraggled appearance.

 

“I'm Sam. Dean's brother,” Sam hurried to explain. “How is he?”

 

“The surgery was successful,” Doctor Moncrieff reassured him as they paused a few steps down the corridor from the waiting area. “When your brother was shot, the bullet fractured his clavicle and caused considerable muscle and ligament damage; but worse than that, the bullet became lodged in his shoulder. We had to remove it and repair the damage, which required us to apply some screws to the bone. He also sustained a concussion when he hit the floor.”

 

Sam swallowed, trying to take in the information past the sudden rushing in his ears. All he could process was the relief. He felt lightheaded and oddly disconnected from his body. “But he's going to be okay, right?”

 

“We'll want to monitor him for any post-op infection and keep an eye on his concussion, but yes, he'll be fine. He's in recovery now.” Doctor Moncrieff smiled at him, the expression transforming her features, ironing out the frown lines and giving a sparkle to her eyes.

 

Sam bit his lip and fidgeted.

 

“You can see him as soon as he's been moved to a room,” the doctor nodded, reading his mind. She made to move away but paused, meeting his gaze. “Your brother was very lucky.”

 

“I know,” Sam jerked his head sharply and broke eye contact, not wanting to be reminded of the what-ifs. “Uh, thank you,” he managed, realising that it was important. This one he couldn't have fixed himself.

 

Doctor Moncrieff smiled again and patted him on the shoulder before marching off down the corridor, her shoes squeaking slightly on the hospital linoleum.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

Dean floated lazily up to the surface, his body light and buoyant. Thoughts trickled by, and he allowed them to, as if watching water burble idly past in a stream. Images splashed up every so often, sensations and feelings broke gently against his rocky consciousness, muffled words languidly ebbed and flowed. But still Dean stayed dry, separate. He didn't want to dip his toe in the water. He was pretty sure it wouldn't lead to anything good.

 

His state of pleasant suspension came to an abrupt end some time later, though, and he was plunged into wakefulness, ice-cold awareness suddenly drenching him. Eyes still closed, he flinched, assessing his situation. His right side felt odd, bulky and stiff. His arm was braced across his chest, secured firmly, as he found out when he tried to move it.

 

“Ugh,” he groaned involuntarily as pain shot across his shoulder. He felt his heart speed up as he tried to make sense of his situation. It felt as if his brain been replaced with cotton wool and his eyes felt crusted up and gritty.

 

“Dean, hey!” A large, comfortingly familiar paw landed on his left side, and Dean automatically felt himself relax, his whole body sagging back against the mattress of whatever bed he was lying on. Sam was here, that was all he needed to know. He was safe. “You with me?”

 

“S'mmy?” Dean croaked, feeling like his tongue had been wrung dry. He cleared his throat messily and opened his eyes a crack.

 

There was hair and a grin. Yeah, that looked like Sam. The kid was sitting at his bedside, poised like a coiled spring.

 

A clearer blink showed the familiar minimalist trappings of a hospital room. Plain white walls, drab artwork, utilitarian furniture, the usual medical appliances. It was amazing how similar they all looked, all the hospital rooms he'd checked into down the years. The room could have been from the little rural clinic he'd spent the night in as a twelve-year old after suffering his first serious concussion, or from the big city hospital he'd skipped out on after being slashed by a black dog while Sam was at Stanford. It was more than a little disorientating.

 

But he remembered the mall, the shooting. Erikson in the mask, stance rigid as he robotically squeezed the trigger.

 

“You get it? The mask, Sam. Did you get it?” The question spilled from his lips, though his voice cracked half way through. Seconds later, and his brother was holding a glass filled with ice chips to his lips, tilting it in encouragement. Dean absently nodded his thanks, too preoccupied to comment on mother hens and babying, but continued to fix the younger man with an interrogatory stare.

 

Sam grimaced almost imperceptibly but otherwise ignored the question. “How're you feeling?” He asked, eyes molten with concern as he began fussing with Dean's pillows. The elder hunter batted him away as well as he could with only one free arm, ignoring the pinched reproach that tightened his brother's features. Dean did a brief diagnostic: limbs still attached, head still on shoulders, heart still beating. Could be worse.

 

“Never better,” he grunted unconvincingly, previously hidden aches and pains deciding to burst out from the shadows, yelling _Surprise!_ and pulling party poppers.

 

Predictably, Sam wasn't buying it. The kid looked edgy and unsettled, even if relief had dappled some of the worry lining his features. “Sure, Dean.” He snorted loudly. “You just got shot, broke your collarbone and had surgery. Oh, not to mention the concussion! Yeah, you're awesome.” Ah, there it was, the beginnings of a bitchface. Did they really have to do this now?

 

“I'm alive, aren't I?” Dean probably could have sounded happier about that, but his irritation was beginning to flare. Sam dodging his question and turning the conversation into a bingo call of his injuries was not acceptable.

 

“Yeah, no thanks to you!” Sam wasn't sounding happy himself, didn't look it either when Dean turned to scowl at him. There were unhealthy patches of puce colouring the kid's cheeks, his eyes hooded and flashing, his fists clenched.

 

And then Dean remembered that he'd deliberately waited to call Sam until Erikson had reached the mall. He wouldn't have been pleased with himself either. He closed his eyes as a surge of exhaustion engulfed him, and it must have showed on his face because his little brother was instantly contrite. “You alright?” Exasperation immediately replaced by worry.

 

“Just a little tired,” the elder hunter grudgingly admitted with a one-shouldered shrug. He glanced down with distaste at the sling trapping his arm. “What the hell is this?”

 

“You broke your collarbone, Dean,” Sam reminded him with painstaking patience, as if his big brother was a kindergartner and not a grown man. “They had to put screws in it, dude. You'll be wearing that for a while.” That last one sounded worryingly like an order. Dean frowned sulkily. “No use bitching at me, dude. You need to keep that arm steady for at least a few weeks.”

 

Yeah, right.

 

Dean allowed his head to fall back against his pillow, disappointed to find it as lumpy as he'd feared. Sam immediately reached out to plump it but halted when Dean shot him a glare. “Fine,” the elder hunter responded testily, because that was what was expected of him, but it was far from an agreement. “So, you gonna stop avoidin' my question?”

 

“What?” Sam's voice shot up a few dozen octaves.

 

“You know,” was all Dean needed to say.

 

Sam pursed his lips and cleared his throat, eyes dropping to the floor. “The mask was gone, Dean.”

 

“Come again?” Dean growled, feeling his pulse start to climb again. He shifted uneasily on the bed.

 

“It wasn't with Erikson's body when I got to it. The forensic guys told me they hadn't seen it at all.” Sam's eyes flew up to meet his brother's, as if the kid felt safe now that the bombshell had been dropped.

 

“And you believed them?” Dean steepled his brows.

 

“I didn't have a choice. They told me nothing had been moved. If one of them had it, why would they _all_ lie?”

 

The kid had a point. “Terrific,” Dean muttered with a sigh, and fidgeted on the bed once more, eager to get out and get moving.

 

Sam watched him sharply, his glare a warning. Dean rolled his eyes.

 

The younger man continued after a pointed pause. “I did get the security footage, though. It might show us who was near Erikson after he was taken down.”

 

Dean furrowed his brow as a fleeting image of the masked cop strobed past, screams and drumming footsteps crescendoing and falling, blood splattering, bodies thudding. He gave his head a small shake to clear it, ignoring his brother's concerned glance, and re-focussed on what Sam had just told him.

 

At least they had something, but knowing their luck the video probably wouldn't show them anything useful. “You watch it?” He asked briskly, back to business.

 

Sam took a deep breath and bit his lip, looking like he wanted to say much more than a soft “No.”

 

“Why the hell not? Sam, you know we gotta find this thing before it causes another freakin' bloodbath!” Dean spluttered, incredulous, staring at Sam as though his little brother had just announced that he was about to take up burlesque dancing.

 

“Dean...” Sam was now gazing with some fascination at a badly painted, blotchy landscape on the opposite wall. The title suggested it was a picture of _Cape Disappointment, Washington._ Strangely apt, Dean thought. “I...”

 

The elder Winchester rolled his eyes in annoyance. Jeez, he recognised that look. Emo-Sam, right on time. Dean could set his watch by him. “What?” _Just spit it out, Sam!_

 

“You scared the crap out of me, man.” Sam abruptly turned to stare at him, and he found himself squirming in discomfort under the unexpected intensity of his brother's gaze. “When I heard what happened on the news...”

 

Dean swallowed, he really didn't want to have this conversation. Screams were still ringing in his ears. “Yeah, well it wasn't much fun for me either,” he snapped.

 

“Dean, for the love of–” Sam threw his hands up and pushed himself out of his chair, propelling himself over to the room's small, streaky window, his back to Dean. “You went there alone, Dean! You were _supposed_ to call me!”

 

“What, and get you shot too? 'Cause that woulda worked out so well!” Dean retorted, but he was starting to lose his breath from the exertion.

 

Sam, head bowed and clearly overcome, didn't seem to pick up on it. “Dean...I thought I was going to find you dead! Don't you get it? I wanted to make sure you were okay. I wasn't going to hang around, watching security videos while you were being sliced open!”

 

Dean felt a growing lump in his throat as he saw how upset Sam was getting. He'd never been especially good at tolerating his brother's distress. _Dammit, Sam! Any more of this and I'm gonna start ovulating._ He fought to calm his breathing, not wanting to give Sam another reason to freak out. “I'm okay, Sammy,” he said reassuringly, waiting for the kid to turn around and face him.

 

When Sam cleared his throat, he sounded suspiciously choked, but by the time he returned to Dean's bedside he had himself under control. “I know,” he nodded, but for the briefest of seconds he looked young – young and lost – instantly catapulting Dean back twenty years. He knew what his stunt had done to his brother, but they didn't have time to emote over it.

 

Dean let the moment hang there for a few seconds before he broke it. “Okay, so let's get me outta here!”

 

The reaction was instantaneous.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Dean! Slow down. You're not going anywhere. You just had surgery!” All of a sudden Sam was looming over him intimidatingly, using his already inconvenient height advantage to even greater effect. As if Dean was going to be browbeaten.

 

“Sam, we need to see those videos.” Dean reasoned, battling to remain calm as Sam continued to tower over him. “We need to get our hands on this mask before someone else does! Not exactly likely if I'm stuck in here.” He used his free hand to gesture in disdain at his surroundings.

 

“But Dean–” Sam had set his jaw, readying himself for another clash.

 

“Are you listenin' to me?” Dean cut across him, his voice rising. “We need to stop anything else from happening!”

 

Sam seemed to sense his big brother's growing agitation, and he acted swiftly to quell it. “Okay, okay!” He raised his palms and took a step backwards, giving Dean his personal space back.

 

The elder Winchester took a breath, preparing to acknowledge his victory.

 

But Sam wasn't quite finished. “Look, how about I just bring the laptop here? We can watch the videos–”

 

Dean stopped him with a patented _are you serious?_ glare, complete with strategically arched brow. “You know I'm right, Sammy.” And Dean knew he knew.

 

There were a few seconds of silence, but Dean was certain now that he'd won.

 

“Okay, fine!”

 

It made a nice change.

 

 


	4. The Difficult Patient

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere and undying gratitude goes to my friend and beta, Sharlot, for keeping me upbeat whenever I had a crisis of confidence and for cleaning up all my silly mistakes. As usual, I've done some tinkering with this after her comments so any remaining errors are down to me.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this little slice of hurt/comfort!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

 

o0o0o

 

**Chapter 4 – The Difficult Patient**

 

 

It wasn't long before Sam was cursing himself for giving in. Getting Dean out of the hospital had been no mean feat. And after a lifetime of springing his big brother from hospital rooms, jail cells, varying degrees of restraint and confinement, and from angry, jealous boyfriends called Barney and Larry, Sam was getting to be a pretty good judge.

 

Dean had been full of bravado; all,  _I'm fine_ , and  _piece 'a cake_ and  _personal space, Sammy_ replete with dismissive hand waving and defiant chin raising. Until he'd had to face the possibility of woozily doing everything one handed, including dressing himself. It had taken all of Sam's self-control not to step in and push his big brother back down onto the bed – and hell, cuff him there if necessary – but he'd known they didn't have much time. They had a job to do.

 

He'd folded his arms sourly, irritated as Dean had emphatically refused his help. The only thing Dean would let him assist with was the removal of his IV. Thereafter, Sam had been dismissed, watching impotently as his brother fumbled first with the bedcovers, and then with the clear plastic bag containing his clothes. He'd had to clench his fingers into the fabric of his shirt to stop himself from taking two strides across the room to do it for him. Especially when he'd seen the ashen, horrified expression on his brother's face at the prospect of negotiating a pair of jeans.

 

But Dean had done what Dean always did. He'd made some lewd joke about voyeurism and kinky fetishes all the while giving Sam his patented steely eye of determination. Then the younger Winchester had been banished behind a feebly drawn curtain, forced to cool his heels while Dean dressed in privacy. Sam had waited worriedly, straining his ears for any sound of over-exertion or pain, at the same time keeping an eye on the door for any curious medical staff who might interrupt their flight.

 

More than a few grunts, groans and  _Don't even think about it, Sammys_ later, a shirtless Dean had tiredly pulled back the beige curtain, pale, clammy and unsteady. Apparently pulling on a pair of jeans had wiped his big brother out. And Sam had cursed himself all over again. Nevertheless, he'd stayed silent as he'd stepped in to help Dean with his shirt. His blood-soaked shirt. Sam had stared at it for a few long seconds, feeling the bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat. But he hadn't thought to grab any clean clothes for Dean, so there had been no other choice but to dress his brother up like a murder victim. 

 

He'd steadied a wavering Dean with one hand, mouth thinning with concern when the older man didn't protest the touch, and had gently helped his brother to remove the sling. He'd held the shirt open as Dean had painstakingly threaded his stiff, injured arm through the sleeve, wincing as his brother hissed in pain and berating himself yet again for allowing it in the first place. The fact that Dean had even  _asked_ for help, let alone allowed it, was major cause for concern.

 

Their escape from the hospital hadn't been much fun either, not with Dean still lurching this way and that like a tree in high wind. The blood-stained shirt had attracted some curious stares, but Sam had tried to keep Dean behind him as much as possible to shield him, checking frequently to make sure his brother wasn't about to take a nosedive. Dean had flat out refused to take an arm, arguing reasonably that it would most likely end up attracting even more attention to them. It was always worrying when one of Dean's ideas sounded reasonable. Sam was pretty sure it was one of the undocumented signs of the Apocalypse.

 

Now back at the dank, shabby motel, Sam watched his brother settle and resettle himself on his chair, a creaky, brittle affair which looked to have been constructed entirely out of used popsicle sticks. Dean's discomfort beamed from him like a lighthouse lamp, unceasingly drawing Sam's gaze again and again to the locus of his pain. Dean's arm was still securely strapped, though his fingers twitched against their confinement every so often. Taut lines of pain hollowed his cheeks and dulled his eyes.

 

_Shouldn'ta taken him out of the hospital_ , Sam chided himself for the umpteenth time. The paltry motel light made Dean look even more sickly, and the younger man could barely resist the urge to check his big brother's sweat-dampened brow. But even one armed, Sam was pretty sure Dean would be able to break his nose for trying. The elder Winchester had already threatened bodily harm if Sam offered him any more pain pills. He'd already vehemently rejected them earlier, insisting that he needed his head clear for the hunt. Typical Dean. Even if it meant constant winces, grimaces and shaky breaths.

 

_Stubborn jackass_ , Sam shook his head.

 

The younger Winchester returned his gaze to the laptop screen. They hadn't been watching the security footage for long; having a reasonable estimate of the time frame they were searching through, though Dean couldn't be sure how long he'd been unconscious before he'd woken to find the paramedics peering urgently down at him. Sam was trying not to dwell on that too much.

 

It had taken a while to locate the camera angle they needed, but eventually they saw Erikson's classic shooter stance, stark and cruel against the pale, pristine consumer décor of the mall. The masked face baring its teeth. The screen was grainy and splodgy, like an impressionist's video rendering. The playback jerked abruptly from frame to frame, little bursts of light erupting from the barrel of the cop's gun as it moved, showing Sam just how many rounds Erikson had fired in a short space of time. The younger Winchester glanced at his brother, noting the heavy cloak of tension that had settled around his shoulders. Dean's features were grim, his jaw jutting.

 

Sensing that reliving memories of the shooting couldn't have been easy for Dean, and predicting that his brother would not welcome him sharing this realisation, Sam kept silent but began skipping the footage forwards as quickly as he dared. If Dean knew what his little brother was up to, he didn't acknowledge or protest it.

 

After a while, Erikson began spasming backwards, limbs jerking spider-like as he danced macabrely to the tempo of the bullets striking his body. Sam could hear Dean's heavy swallow as they watched, but again the younger man said nothing.

 

The mask, which had up until that point appeared surgically attached to its wearer, went skittering from Erikson's skull as it rebounded off the hard flooring. It spun violently, its momentum easily carrying it away from the downed cop. And straight over the edge of the second floor walkway as it whirled neatly through the space underneath the glass-rimmed balcony and plummeted.

 

“Dammit!” the horrified brothers yelled simultaneously, and Sam immediately leapt forward to pause the video.

 

“Sonofabitch!” Dean spat, furious, and Sam couldn't blame him. _Still_ the damn thing evaded them.

 

“Wait, just wait a minute,” Sam tried to douse the flames of his brother's frustration before they raged out of control. He began tapping at the computer keys, pupils darting from side to side as different windows began popping up before his eyes. “If I can isolate the time the mask went over the edge on the other cameras, we should be able to track its fall.”

 

Dean's breathing was still strained, but he nodded, trusting Sam. Bolstered, the younger man began stampeding his fingers across the keyboard once more.

 

“Okay...” Sam murmured, pulling up the different windows he'd opened, one by one. He pointed at the first. “Look, there it is.” He changed angles. “And again. We just need to see where it lands.” 

 

Both brothers scanned the images, noses beginning to lean ever closer to the screen until their heads almost bumped together.

 

“I see it!” Dean declared triumphantly, pointing to a dark object that had bounced in a huge arc after rebounding off the ground floor tiles.

 

“I got it,” Sam assured him, switching the camera angle to see the mask tumbling towards the doorway of – and the younger man twitched an involuntary glance at his big brother – a lingerie store. Dean's eyebrows quirked despite the seriousness of the situation, and he cleared his throat, preparing, no doubt, to make an inappropriate comment. “Don't say it, Dean!” Sam warned him with a raised finger. “Just don't.”

 

He caught Dean's eye-roll but ignored it as he focussed on the entrance to the store. It seemed empty at first glance, but after several minutes' wait, the brothers hit pay dirt. A tentative hand reached towards the mask, lifting it up for a closer look. Then she stepped more clearly into focus; a young woman with thick, peroxide locks and tottering heels, wearing what Sam was pretty sure was a store logo t-shirt. She was evidently an employee. As she stood staring at the mask, others were moving around her, darting and running for escape. She was still, however, as she slowly turned the mask over and over in her hands, fascinated. After several moments she stiffened and purposefully placed the mask in her large tote purse.

 

“Well, I'll be damned,” Dean murmured, rubbing absently at his injured shoulder.

 

Sam could only shake his head as the woman began to walk out of the camera's range.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

Dean grew more taciturn as the evening wore on.

 

Sam had sternly vetoed the possibility of doing any further investigating that night, and his big brother was not happy about it. Dean had argued for marching straight down to the mall and demanding the store's employee records – at gunpoint if necessary. Then he'd wanted to charge over to the girl's home and take her down (double entendre not picked up  _or_ capitalised on). Again, at gunpoint if necessary. But the younger Winchester had categorically refused.

 

For one thing: “Dean, you got  _shot_ earlier today! You had to get your bones  _screwed_ back together. You need to get some rest!”

 

And another: “We  _still_ don't know what to do with this thing! We can at least use the time to do some research. You saw how quickly that girl turned into a zombie. It looks like this curse is speeding up. We need to make sure we can handle it when we do find it.”

 

Sam knew he was making sense. Hell, anyone would have seen that he was making sense. But Dean...Oh no, Dean Winchester wouldn't have known sense if it smacked him upside the head. Which, Sam had to admit, he was seconds away from doing, if his brother hadn't already been recovering from a concussion.

 

The younger Winchester closed his eyes, dug his fingers into his sockets and counted to ten, adding ten or twenty more for good measure. “Dean.” He said with as much as calm as he could manage, trying to halt the older man in his tracks.

 

Dean, who was at that moment pacing the room, blithely ignored him and continued his grumbled mutterings, only some of which Sam could hear. The ones he was able to make out he was certain his brother had intended for him to hear. The words 'bitch', 'bossy', 'pole', 'ass' and 'up' featured heavily.

 

Sam twisted his lips in irritation and pushed himself up from his chair, putting his hands on his hips authoritatively. He knew his brother was only acting the way he was because of pain and discomfort. Not to mention that he was almost certainly still dealing with the after effects of the shooting he'd just survived. But he also knew that Dean had refused painkillers. The jerk. And for that, he had no sympathy. “Dean!” he called, trying to channel his best John Winchester drill-sergeant growl.

 

But still the floorboards continued to creak under the tread of Dean's boots, the elder hunter nailing him with a murderous glare.

 

Thoroughly fed up, and in no mood to deal with a grouchy big brother through the night, Sam stepped into Dean's path and reached out to grasp his upper arms, physically blocking him. He was careful with his brother's injury, but was otherwise insistently firm. “Stop!” he barked, feeling the thrum of Dean's agitation through his coiled muscles.

 

Dean's eyes flashed, his lips thinning. “Get off me, Sam! I'm flattered, but I don't swing that way.” He tried to dislodge Sam's grip but couldn't, his fingers lacking strength.

 

The younger Winchester played to his advantage, pushing Dean backwards and manhandling him down onto his bed. The one nearest the door, as always, though it would be Sam keeping watch that night. “You have to take it easy, dude. You're exhausted and you're hurt.” He kept his hands on Dean, applying pressure to keep his brother seated.

 

“I'm fine!” came the expected snark, but fatigue easily took away the intended sting, making it sound more like the protesting whine of an eight year old denied a favourite toy. 

 

With Dean finally still, Sam had a chance to look at him close up. He was pouting like the little boy he resembled, but he was pale and shivery. Sam put a palm to his forehead, managing to hold it there for a few seconds before Dean recovered enough to shove it away.

 

“Hold still,” Sam muttered, frowning at the growing heat there. Not a significant fever, but Dean was warmer than he ought to be.

 

Sam bit his lip. The doctor  _had_ mentioned the possibility of a post-op infection, after all. And Sam had allowed his brother to manipulate him into leaving the hospital. He cursed again, gathering himself up to his full height. He was getting his brother into bed if he had to friggin' hogtie him to the frame. 

 

“Sam, seriously, pull your g-string outta your ass. I'm _fine_. We need to keep goin'!” Dean tried again to bat his brother away, but the motion lacked its usual force.

 

“No.” Sam set his jaw. “You're gonna take your pain meds and some ibuprofen, then you're gonna to go to bed, and you're gonna go to sleep. Now!”

 

“Oh, is that so?” Evidently Dean wasn't about to back down without a fight.

 

“Yeah, actually it is.” Neither was Sam. “'Cause I have this!” He pulled out the key to the Impala and tossed it into the air a couple of times. Dean's eyes tracked its progress like a dog eyeing up a treat. “And you ain't going anywhere unless I say so.”

 

Dean shot him a mutinous look. “Or I could just take them offa you! Even one armed, I could still take you down, princess.”

 

Sam doubted it, the way Dean looked he couldn't have fended off a light breeze. But the younger man didn't particularly want to test that theory out. Dean needed to recover. Sam sighed, knowing he had one last play, but hating himself for it all the same. He dropped to a crouch in front his brother. “Look, man, I need you at the top of your game. I need you watching my back. That means you need to get some rest.” And out came the doe eyes he knew his brother couldn't resist. “Please, Dean.” He held his palms up beseechingly.

 

And watched his brother's resolve crumble.

 

“Alright, alright,” Dean response was an ungracious grumble, waving Sam off as he sourly reached for his sweats. “Bitch.”

 

Sam ignored the jibe, already heading for the bathroom to get his brother a glass of water for the pills. Their first aid kit was out of morphine, and with Dean so intent on staging a break-out from the hospital, he hadn't had time to replenish their supply. They'd have to make do with codeine.

 

He returned to the room to find Dean wrestling with his sling, his shirt half off and hanging down at a comical angle. Sam tutted, placing the water and pills on the nightstand and immediately reaching round to undo the sling. Dean endured the attention stoically, but tried to push his brother away with his free arm as soon as the sling had been removed. But Sam was not to be budged, and he deftly and carefully pulled the shirt free from Dean's injured arm, ignoring the older man's groan of protest.

 

The younger Winchester tossed the shirt on his own bed and picked up the water and pills, lifting his brother's uninjured wrist and pressing the pills into Dean's palm.

 

“Dude!” Dean was glaring indignantly at him. “I'm not a freakin' baby!”

 

“Really? Well you could have fooled me, Dean!” Sam snorted, holding out the water and wiggling the glass in front of Dean's nose.

 

“All babies do is eat, sleep, cry and crap,” Dean groused, but he popped the pills in his mouth and snatched the water from Sam, taking a deep gulp.

 

“Well, if the shoe fits, Dean...” Sam couldn't suppress a smirk when Dean choked slightly on the water.

 

“Shut up!”

 

Sam found himself chuckling harder, feeling some of the tension he'd been carrying across his shoulders since he'd found out Dean was at the mall dissipate. He took the glass from his still spluttering brother and set it down again on the nightstand. “C'mon dude,” he gave Dean a fond pat on his good shoulder and grabbed the discarded sling.

 

“Oh, no,” Dean shook his head vigorously, wincing at the ill-advised motion. “I'm not puttin' that damn' thing back on again!”

 

“Yeah, you are,” Sam insisted matter of factly. “Doctor's orders, Dean. You have to wear it at night too. You need to keep your arm still.” He thought of the way Dean usually draped himself across the bead, octopus limbs splayed everywhere, and shuddered. They couldn't have that. 

 

Dean looked so crestfallen it was all Sam could do to stop himself from reaching forward to ruffle his brother's hair. “Fine,” Dean mumbled, pouting while the younger Winchester reattached the sling and giving a small grimace as his arm was jarred.

 

“Sorry,” Sam murmured as he secured the contraption behind his brother's neck. “There,” he announced, taking a step back from Dean and beginning to arrange the pillows on the elder hunter's bed so that Dean's shoulders would be more elevated as he slept.

 

Dean watched his little brother's fussing with a single arched brow but otherwise made no comment.

 

“What?” Sam asked as he straightened up, confused by Dean's expression. The older man didn't look pissed, exactly. He didn't look happy either, but there was something softer there too.

 

“Thanks.” There was a faint blush colouring Dean's cheeks, and he scratched at a point just behind his ear.

 

Sam smiled fondly at him. He was pretty sure his brother's low grade fever was the real culprit for his expression of embarrassed gratitude, but he also knew it was coming from the right place.

 

The younger Winchester puffed out a short breath and put a hand on Dean's uninjured shoulder, guiding him down onto the bed. “Don't mention it. Just go to sleep, Dean. I'll be here when you wake up, alright?”

 

The elder hunter's eyes were already at half-mast and he let out a sleepy sigh, his body melting down into the mattress. He was out for the count by the time Sam had drawn the bedcovers over him, a soft snore already purring out. The younger man stood back, giving his brother a final, assessing sweep. Satisfied that Dean was comfortable and sleeping peacefully, Sam heaved a giant sigh, relief dulling some of the sharper pangs of concern, and returned to the laptop. Lifting the screen he reached for his cell and pressed the speed dial.

 

“Hey Bobby, it's Sam. It's been a hell of a day...What you got?” 

 

 


	5. The Face from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my sincerest thank you goes to Sharlot for her awesome beta work on this chapter. You are an absolute star, my friend! I've done my usual tinkering after getting her notes, so any mistakes are all on me.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

o0o0o

 

**Chapter 5 – The Face from the Past**

 

There was a media scrum outside the police department when Sam and Dean arrived early the next morning; television cameras aimed like heavy artillery, their operators crouched tensely in the foxhole behind the frontline of polished, buffed reporters. Vans emblazoned with the hallmarks of several different news stations and topped with impossibly large satellites boxed in the huddle like tanks in military formation.

 

Onlookers were also beginning to drift over and gather like flotsam. It looked like a press conference was being set up.

 

The two hunters blanched at the sight, both having forgotten that America's breakfast news feasted on stories like this, that the eyes of the country would be heavily trained on the epicentre of the mall shooting aftermath.

 

“Dammit.” Sam heard his brother mutter over the low rumble of chatter and agreed. Neither wanted to end up with cameos on Good Morning America, especially after the bank fiasco in Milwaukee. Dean didn't need anymore media exposure. But then, they'd arranged to meet the lingerie store manager there that morning and their options were limited. They needed to find the woman who'd taken the mask.

 

“I hear ya,” Sam murmured back out of the corner of his mouth as he kept his eyes on the crowd. “But we need to get in there.”

 

Dean was silent for a brief moment, before he gave a one-shouldered shrug and shot Sam a smirk. “Well, the camera _does_ love me!” He was considerably chirpier than he'd been the previous night, and any lingering feverishness had thankfully eased – to Sam's relief. The heavier-duty painkillers chased down by a good night's sleep had worked wonders. Dean had predictably refused another dose of the meds when he'd wakened earlier that morning, grudgingly agreeing only to a couple of over the counter pills that would barely scratch the surface, but Sam was still calling it a win. “One shot of my good side–”

 

“You don't have a good side,” Sam interrupted automatically.

 

Dean considered this, cocking his head. “You're right, Sammy,” he nodded, filling time until the punchline. “I can work _any_ angle!”

 

Sam rolled his eyes but couldn't dampen the smile that flared. It was inconceivable that he'd been so close to losing his brother the day before. “Whatever, dude!” He snorted. “Anyway, isn't the camera supposed to add ten pounds?”

 

“Good point. Better watch yourself, Sammy!”

 

The bitchface was automatic too, but he hadn't the will to give it any real sting. Dean was smirking, snarking and sniping. But he was alive. And Sam couldn't bring himself to be too annoyed.

 

“Alright,” Dean cleared his throat, turning serious. Their banter was always good like that. It helped them to refocus; their minds working in tandem as the insults and jibes rallied back and forth, silently bouncing ideas off each other. “Let's do this. Just act like you don't care about 'em. Don't answer any questions. Keep your back to the camera.”

 

“Okay, you walk in front of me.” Sam nodded.

 

At Dean's sudden motion, the younger Winchester reached out. “Whoa, whoa, slow down!” He put a hand on his brother's shoulder to stop him from charging on too far ahead. “And stay close.”

 

“You want me to hold your hand as well, Samantha? Maybe carry you over the threshold?” Dean was staring at Sam as if he'd sprouted another head.

 

“No, you idiot!” Sam exhaled in frustration. “For one thing, I'm _taller_ than you.” He ignored Dean's eye roll. “You're the one who had your face spread across the news in Milwaukee, not to mention St. Louis. Do I need to keep going?”

 

“I don't need a bodyguard, Sam!” Dean growled.

 

But Sam was not to be budged. “Actually, Dean, you do. We can't have anyone recognising you.”

 

“Alright, fine!” Dean barked back, roughly shoving Sam's arm from his good shoulder. “But I ain't no Whitney, dude.” With that, he marched forward, Sam scrambling to keep up.

 

When they reached the edge of the growing crowd of onlookers, Sam moved in behind Dean as closely as possible, keen eyes taking in all the possible hazards that might damage his already injured brother; elbows and purses and cameras and briefcases. He raised his arm, letting it hover in the space above Dean's fractured collarbone as they began pushing their way towards the police department entrance. The elder hunter was oblivious, for which Sam was supremely grateful.

 

Sam tensed up the muscles in his arm as an unknown shoulder rebounded off it, closely followed by a lethal-looking elbow. He pushed aside a woman who was headed on a collision course with Dean, her face turned to look behind her. Ignoring her indignant huff he shifted his position slightly so that he had more control over the space above Dean's shoulder. He maintained the protective bubble until they reached the open space at the entrance, then he casually used his width to block any view of his brother as they jogged up the stairs with an air of hurried efficiency.

 

Questions pelted them as they headed for the glass doors. Most, Sam completely tuned out, but some he found himself smirking at. Conspiracy theories were rife, if the reporters were to be believed. He snorted internally, they had no idea.

 

Eventually they reached the safety of the building's stuffy foyer, the tinny wheeze of the labouring air conditioner easily drowning out the bustle from the front steps. A series of strip lights above flickered on and off with ill-choreographed timing, the imaginary rhythm distracting Sam as he scanned the space. Uniformed officers were milling about while several men dressed in more formal suits were clustered loosely, posturing and casting frequent glances at the door. But it was the figure standing at the front desk gesticulating aggressively that caught Sam's eye. The man was suited and booted, a shaggy head of clay-coloured hair just nudging at his shirt collar. He was burly, not quite as tall as Dean, but broad and solid.

 

It was then that the younger man realised his big brother was already several steps ahead of him, heading for the object of Sam's sudden scrutiny.

 

“Uh, I-I'll n-need to just check–” a flustered receptionist was stammering, all but cowering before the irate man in front of her.

 

“It's okay, Brandi,” Dean smoothly interjected, leaning confidently across the desk with an easy grin.

 

Sam's brows folded in confusion. Vaguely he noted that this was the infamous _Brandi –_ pretty enough, though not Dean's usual prey – but the question of who this newcomer was sped straight to pole position. Not to mention how his brother even knew the guy in the first place.

 

“He's one of ours,” Dean was assuring her, oozing the charm. “Agent,” he nodded to the interloper in greeting and laid a jovial hand on the man's arm.

 

“Dean! I-I mean Agent Gibbons,” Brandi blushed beetroot, immediately straightening and beginning to chew her gum exaggeratedly as she thrust out her chest. Sam saw his brother's eyes crinkle, but Dean was otherwise silent. “Oh my _god_ , what happened to your arm?”

 

“Special Agent business,” Dean winked while Brandi simpered and Sam fought his gag reflex.

 

The unknown man cleared his throat with a mucousy scrape. Brandi let out a small gasp, landing with a bump. “Oh!” She flicked the newcomer a cautious glance. “I'm sorry Agent Kilmister.”

 

“S'okay, sweetheart,” Sam heard the gravelly voice for the first time, and tilted his head, certain on some level that he recognised it. “Just doin' your job.” He turned to face Dean, and Sam caught sight of his profile.

 

There was a vague flash of memory, vapory like morning mist. And then all of a sudden he was tossed backwards fifteen years.

 

_Eight years old, sitting cross-legged on a threadbare sofa, picking at a piece of fluff and sulking because he'd been banished again. Sent away from the discussion taking place in the kitchen of their latest rental. Their latest crummy, boring dump. Unbearably jealous that Dean had been allowed to stay, Sam was sulking. And listening. The clunk of beer bottles being lifted and deposited on the formica table, the patchy rumble of voices carrying through the partially closed door. Sam would have crept closer to the doorway, but John Winchester had the hearing prowess of a dog, and would probably have caught him before he'd taken five paces._

 

_Dad, Dean and Billy were cooking up the plan for their latest hunt, which Sam hadn't been allowed to know anything about. But which he'd manipulated his big brother into telling him anyway. Hesitantly, edgily, Dean had told him that the bodies of young teens had been turning up all over town. In pieces. A smaller species of Manticore, Dad and Billy had thought. But they didn't yet know how to catch it._

 

“ _C'mon Johnny, it makes sense!” A raised voice boomed out through the ajar door. Johnny. Sam didn't think he'd ever heard anyone ever call his father that. But apparently Billy was some old army buddy and had special privileges that way._

 

“ _We are not using my son as bait!” John Winchester thundered, sounding as dangerous as Sam had ever heard him, and he shuddered, instinctively burrowing further into his corner of the sofa. He knew this was not a conversation he was supposed to hear, but the mention of Dean had pricked his ears. Dean being used as bait, he didn't like the sound of that. Didn't like it at all._

 

_Wide-eyed, he peered over the top of the couch, watching the shadows dance beyond the door._

 

“ _But Dad–” Dean was trying to protest._

 

“ _No, Dean. And that's an order.”_

 

“ _You're goin' soft Johnny-boy!” Billy again, his tone light, but Sam could sense something dangerous beneath it, ticking like an unexploded bomb._

 

_Then the kitchen door was closed with heavy, ominous deliberateness, stopping Sam from hearing his father's response._

 

_He chewed uneasily on a fingernail as the muffled argument continued, the atmosphere in the small cabin oppressive and tense. Pushing the muted voices away, he tried to retreat into his imagination, as he often did. He didn't want to be there. Wanted to get away from the growls and the shouts and the dread. He picked up the Batman comic Dean had read him earlier, trying to picture his brother's favourite superhero, swooping here and there, charging towards the manticore – which Sam decided looked like a shaggy, mangy dog – and killing it with one swift blow._

 

_With almost perfect timing, Sam's manticore crumpled to the ground and the kitchen door was wrenched open, dragging him back to reality. Billy was practically vibrating with repressed rage, shooting Sam an unkind scowl as he stalked towards the front door and slammed it behind him._

 

“Sammy!” Fingers clicked loudly in front of his eyes and he blinked back into the present. Dean was staring at him with a mixture of exasperation, amusement and concern. “You with me?”

 

“What?” The younger man coughed unsteadily, trying to banish the ghost of his eight-year-old self.

 

“You remember Billy, right?” Dean was beaming at him with enthusiasm, gesturing to the man next to him. Brandi had floated off to see to another visitor. They were alone.

 

“Alright, Sammy?” Bill crunched out, voice rough-hewn and craggy. “Look at you, kid! Last time I saw ya you were, what, yay high?” He chuckled, gesturing at the height of his knee.

 

Sam gave him a thin smile, not appreciating the exaggerated joke, or the use of the nickname he privileged only his brother with. “Bill, hey. Man, yeah it's been a long time. Good to see you,” he managed, aware in his peripheral vision that Dean was giving him an odd look.

 

Dean eyed him for a moment longer before stepping in to rescue the situation. “Billy and I worked another job together a couple years back.What was it again?”

 

“A witch.” Bill heaved a long-suffering sigh.

 

“Oh yeah!” Dean nudged Sam. “I ever tell you how much I friggin' hate witches?”

 

“It was a Bruja all the way from South America,” Bill explained to Sam, before turning back to Dean. “Did a real number on ya if I remember right! Guess some things never change, huh?” He gestured to the elder Winchester's sling and injured shoulder.

 

“What?” Sam felt a jolt, his pulse quickening. That sounded serious. “When was this? What happened?” The fear was irrational, he knew, with Dean standing there in front of him, but he couldn't suppress the Pavlovian response that had been growing in strength since he and Dean had started hunting again. He swallowed, a lump of unease forming in the pit of his stomach. Where had their father been?

 

“Hunt went south, Sam. Just a bad day at the office. Lucky Billy was there to pull me out.” The shutters came down, and Sam knew he'd just been locked out. Curiosity mingled with concern, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth as a latent guilt wrapped itself around the mixture and tied it up in a giant bow. Clearly this had occurred when he was at Stanford, a time Dean was always frustratingly tight-lipped about.

 

“Yeah, you always did make lousy bait!” Bill guffawed, giving Dean a bone-rattling slap on his good shoulder.

 

Sam might have throttled him, but he was falling back through time again, the other man's words triggering another memory. His surroundings faded out, darkening at the edges as the scene played out before his eyes.

 

“ _Sam! Sammy!” Sam didn't think he had ever heard his father sound so frantic. It chilled him to his core as he jerked awake. Shivering, he scrambled from his bed, nearly tripping in his haste as his father continued to call for him. He rushed into the living room, stumbling to a halt at the sight he came upon. John Winchester was laying a limp, unconscious Dean down onto the sofa. His brother's limbs swung like pendulums as John lowered him, head lolling._

 

_The youngest Winchester felt his insides liquefy at the sight. “Dean!” He screamed, wobbling forwards on jelly legs. His big brother was snowy pale in the faint light, eyes closed, mouth slack. Blood wetly covered his middle, thick and viscous. Sam's hand flew to his mouth and he fought the sudden urge to retch. He'd never known a fear like it. “Dad?” he managed shakily, looking dazedly up at his father._

 

“ _Get the kit, son!” John's breath came in heaves, sweat dampening his brow._

 

_Sam froze._

 

“ _Now!” he roared, desperate eyes spearing Sam's._

 

Disconcerted, Sam tried to tune back in to the conversation between his brother and Bill. He was feeling nauseous and he knew there was a very real chance he would toss his cookies if he allowed the memory to keep running.

 

“So how'd you end up trackin' this thing?” Dean was asking in a low voice.

 

“Guess I picked up the same vibe you did,” Bill shrugged. “Heard about that mask. Did some diggin'...here I am.” He held his arms out, palms up.

 

“Well, no sense in us each workin' our own gig. Might as well pool our resources,” Dean suggested, and Sam's heart sank to the floor, weighing him down like an anchor. There was something wrong here, a sense of foreboding the younger Winchester couldn't quite pin down. Sam knew he was going to have to keep a close eye on their unexpected associate. And try to convince his big brother of the same as soon as he got him alone.

 

As they were directed towards an interview room that had been set aside for their witness, Sam grabbed his opportunity. Literally. With one hand he held Dean back, letting Bill stride on ahead. “Dean, I'm not sure about this!” he hissed anxiously, eyes tracking the older hunter as he disappeared down the corridor.

 

“What? Why?” Dean stared at him with wide-eyed obliviousness.

 

“ _Why?_ ” Sam squawked incredulously. “Do you even remember what went down between him and dad?”

 

Dean rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. “Jesus, Sammy! That was fifteen years ago. Billy helped me out of a real tight spot when I needed him down in New Mexico. Dad wasn't around then.”

 

It was a condemnation. A damning gavel.

 

And Sam felt it deeply; the confirmation that their father really had abandoned Dean to hunt alone. The realisation burned, hotter still when he caught sight of the hurt his brother didn't manage to bury in time. He opened his mouth, needing to say something – knowing that something needed to be said – but this wasn't the time or the place.

 

He showed nothing of his inner turmoil to his brother, however, merely raising a sceptical brow.

 

Dean sighed. “Look, Billy's good people. And we need all the help we can get on this one.” And with that, he turned to follow the older hunter, not waiting for Sam to follow.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

The store manager easily identified the woman who had stolen the mask, a junior sales assistant by the name of Emily Berger. Dean hadn't even needed to unholster his bad cop hard stare. Sam hadn't needed the full beam puppy eyes. The woman's address was quickly obtained from the store's personnel records and then they were on their way. Billy had his own ride and was travelling separately, which gave Sam the opening he'd seemingly been waiting for. He'd been bitching freely and with reckless abandon since the second he'd gotten behind the Impala's wheel.

 

Dean rubbed a thumb and forefinger across his brow, adding a growing headache to the charging army of pain the crappy, band-aid pills were attempting to battle. They were heavily outgunned. He winced as Sam revved the Chevy's engine just a little too throatily, setting his teeth on edge. “Watch it, Sam!” He snapped, in no mood to deal with his brother mishandling his car. Sighing theatrically, he let his head tip sideways against the window with a dull thunk.

 

The younger Winchester was undeterred. “I'm telling you, man. There's something off about him.”

 

Dean swallowed back a groan. _Awesome_. Not only was he feeling like crap warmed over, but Sam had gotten hold of a bone and was worrying it with all his might. As if they didn't have enough to deal with. “Dammit Sam! We've been through this. It was years ago,” he groused, fresh out of patience for a trip down memory lane with his brother, who never had _anything_ good to say about that particular stretch of their lives.

 

Sam ignored him and abruptly took the conversation in a different direction as he swung the Impala a harsh left. “What happened on that hunt you worked on together while I was at Stanford?”

 

Slightly off balance from the non sequitur, and chewing on another reprimand for his brother's clumsy manoeuvring, it took Dean a few seconds to realise what the younger man was asking. “What–Sam, just let it go!”

 

There was no way he wanted to share that particular story. All kinds of warnings were flashing up; skulls, crosses, do not enters, hazardous materials. The whole débâcle hadn't been one of Dean's brightest moments, but worse, Sam would probably have a meltdown if he'd known just how serious it had gotten, or how close he'd come to being an only child.

 

Sam was giving him the anxious bitchface. One facial expression, and somehow he managed to work so many different looks. “Don't you think I have a right to know?”

 

Dean went rigid, hundreds of gloomy, solitary nights passing before his eyes. Who the hell did Sam think he was? Sam, who had flounced off to California without a backwards glance, who hadn't cared that Dean was on his own half the time. Who hadn't thought to call when his big brother was laid up in the hospital, with only Billy to grab him spare clothes and spring him once the innocently curious questions about his fraudulent insurance started. Sam thought he had a _right_ to know?

 

Yeah, that one pissed him off.

 

“Honestly? No.” Dean skewered his brother with a cold stare. No matter how much he loved the kid, or how close they'd become since their father died, Dean couldn't quite let those years of loneliness completely fade away. An after-image imprinted on his soul, always visible when he looked closely enough. And he knew that hurt Sam, could see it straight away on the kid's face, the way his little brother turned to stare at the road in front, blinking furiously. And Dean was sorry for it, but he wasn't going to apologise either.

 

Several long moments passed. Long enough for Sam to regain his composure, apparently, because he came back fighting. Sam and his geekboy tendency to over-analyse everything. Whittling away at the friggin' bone. Damn thing would be a toothpick by the time the kid was done. “What did he mean when he said you were lousy bait?”

 

Dean felt his heart skip a couple of beats as an avalanche of sounds and images and _pain_ surged over him. “That?” He cleared his throat loudly, trying to hide the squeak.

 

Sam shot him a knowing look, concern wrestling with irritation, his expression setting in that way Dean knew meant his brother was definitely in it for the long haul. “Yeah, that.”

 

The elder hunter was in no hurry to turn over that particular patch of soil. Even now, his misjudgement that night still burned, humiliation rising afresh. Biting his lip, he scratched at the back of his neck, fiddling with the sling. Sam reached across and batted his hand away.

 

“Quit messing with that!”

 

“Alright, _mom_!”

 

Sam pursed his lips. “Dean?” He was not to be friggin' moved.

 

“Okay, fine!” the elder Winchester relented with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes briefly as the aches in his body began to gather momentum again. The paltry painkillers had worn off. “Look, I set myself up to be bait for that bitch, and I messed up. If Billy hadn'a been there, I'da been toast. That's all you need to know.” Case closed, end of discussion.

 

Apparently Sam didn't get the memo. “That seems to have happened quite a lot.” It was bitter, sardonic.

 

And it made Dean growl low in irritation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

Sam puffed out a breath, working his jaw silently for a few beats as if he was trying out the words for size. “I mean the first time he worked with us, Dean. You being bait. It all going horribly wrong. Ringing any bells?”

 

The elder Winchester felt his cheeks burn hot. _Low blow, Sam_. He could vividly remember the tanning his father had given him after that one. John Winchester could give a dressing down like no other. Once his injuries had healed, of course. But it had been another one of his own mistakes, not Billy's, not in the way Sam seemed to be suggesting. “That is _not_ what happened, Sam. You were obviously too young to remember,” he spat.

 

The bitchface was back. “Well then enlighten me, Dean!” Sam retorted in that condescending tone Dean really hated. “I can remember dad saying _no way_. I was _old enough_ to remember him ordering you not to do it. Not to put yourself at risk from that friggin' thing. Way _I_ remember it, Bill seemed to be there right when it happened!”

 

Dean shifted uncomfortably and deliberately turned to look out the passenger side window. Small houses were whizzing by, all pale blues and greys. “Yeah, well sorry to burst your bubble there, Sammy, but that one was on me too.”

 

Sam sounded genuinely confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

 

Dean whipped his head around to face his brother's heated gaze, regretting the motion as his temples pulsed. “I was the one who went out there. I was the one who made myself bait for that thing.”

 

The kid's features scrunched up like a discarded wrapper. “What? Dean, you were _twelve_!”

 

“Exactly! I was old enough to know what I was doin' and it was _my_ decision to do it,” Dean argued back, gesturing towards himself. Sam just didn't get it. Dean had been making life or death decisions since...well, for as long as he could remember. Age didn't come into it. “'Sides, it worked didn't it?”

 

Sam's eyes popped, a vein perceptibly bulging on his forehead. He looked as if he was on the verge of an aneurysm. “Yeah, Dean. It worked really well. You got gutted by that monster and I had to help dad stitch you back together! Job done.”

 

Dean just shook his head, understanding his brother's anger but knowing it was directed at the wrong person. “Well, we got the damn thing,” he reasoned, trying to put the safety back on his temper. “That's what matters. Same with New Mexico. Me and Billy got that Bruja bitch.”

 

When Sam opened his mouth, no doubt to make another smart-ass comment, Dean jumped in again. “I'm not havin' this conversation with you again, Sam. You weren't around then. You don't get to judge.”

 

That one had hit a nerve, he could see it instantly, Sam recoiling as if he'd been slapped. But Dean was too angry – at himself, at Sam, at their father – to try to fix it.

 

“Fine,” Sam muttered thickly, biting his lip. And Dean hated to see it, but on this one he needed to stand firm.

 

“Fine,” he echoed, but not unkindly, wanting to lift the heavy curtain of tension that had drawn between them. “Now, tell me again what Bobby said about the incantation.”

 

After a long, elastic moment, Sam settled back into business mode, but unhappily, if the sneaky side-glance was anything to go by. “Well, we've got all the stuff we need. I measured it all out while you were getting your beauty sleep.”

 

Dean sensed an opportunity to lighten the mood and went for it. “I still say it sounds more like a burrito mix than a spell, dude.”

 

“If you like rat bones and dog blood in your burrito!” Sam snorted.

 

“Shut up! You know what I'm talkin' about. All those friggin' spices and chillies.”

 

There was a smile, little more than a vapour, but a smile nonetheless. Mission accomplished.

 

“Yeah, whatever,” Sam shook his head. “It's the incantation itself we need to worry about. Thing's damn hard to read, and we can't make any mistakes.”

 

“So...we light it all up, say our lines and that's it? The curse is lifted?”

 

“If we say the words right. And I don't know about you, but ancient Aztec Nahuatl wasn't exactly on my list of high school languages.” Sam looked comically affronted.

 

“Didn't they teach that kinda geekboy crap at Stanford?” Dean rolled his eyes. “C'mon, how hard can it be?”

 

“This from the guy who can't even speak English properly sometimes!” Sam tossed back, a twinkle in his eye.

 

“Shut up!”

 

Sam flashed another smile, but this time it was grim, accepting. “I'll do it. I've had more time to look at it anyway.” He turned to Dean. “You can just do what you do best.”

 

“Lightin' things up?”

 

Third smile's the charm. “Exactly.”

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

They congregated around the corner from Emily Berger's cutesy, little house. Dean had sneered and rolled his eyes at the cacophony of hot pink flowers that blasted out from underneath each of the front windows as they'd carefully cruised past in the Impala. _“Sorry, Sammy, I can't hear you over those friggin' flowers”_ he'd grumbled with a disgusted nose-wrinkle. Sam had privately agreed, but encouraging a grouchy Dean was never wise. The rest of the house had been modest in comparison, the milky grey of the walls more than a few decibels quieter than its floral garnish. The small dwelling was set back several metres from the sidewalk, and Sam was glad of it; if there was going to be a showdown, better that any curtain-twitching neighbours didn't have a front row seat.

 

The drapes were almost fully closed, a small gap in each window not giving much away. It struck Sam as odd, at this time in the morning, for the little house to look like it had gone into hibernation.

 

“So, how are we gonna play this?” Dean asked. And Sam could have sworn that his brother looked first at Bill. Or had he just imagined it? The elder Winchester was shifting slightly on the spot, discomfort clearly showing in the taut planes of his cheeks and the stiff way he held himself. The painkillers had to have worn off, Sam fretted, swallowing uneasily.

 

“Dean, how about you and I take the back and Sam goes front?” Bill suggested, barely sparing Sam a glance.

 

Sam was instantly shaking his head. “No. Dean can't handle a weapon right now. He comes with me. We'll both take back.”

 

He tensed, waiting for his brother to protest. Dean was watching him intently, as if trying to figure out whether it was protectiveness or hostility that was driving the demand. Either way, Sam could tell his brother wasn't thrilled. But Dean had to see the logic in the plan. With his right arm strapped up in a sling, firing a gun was out of the question. If Sam could have benched him completely, he would have, but he also knew his brother wouldn't stay down.

 

“Works for me,” Dean nodded, and Sam felt some of the tension deflate from his body.

 

“Alright,” the former marine shrugged nonchalantly, but he narrowed his eyes at Sam before giving Dean an odd look that the younger Winchester couldn't begin to decipher. Sam only knew that he didn't like it. But he wasn't going anywhere near the disastrous conversation he'd just had with Dean in the Impala. Any attempt at broaching the subject in the future would be a booby-trapped, minefield of a conversation. He was going to have to tread with care.

 

They divided the supplies and equipment, Sam childishly pleased that Bill hadn't been trusted with the materials for the incantation. He did have a ridiculously large gun, though, which Sam thought was unnecessary but which Dean had made eyes at as soon as Bill had lifted it from the trunk of his car. Sam watched as their father's old friend shoved it into the back of his waistband and headed up the front path, signalling to the brothers to sneak along the side of the house and around the back. Sam slunk forwards with a hand on his colt, while Dean hefted the bag of spell ingredients with his good arm.

 

The brothers each took a side, meeting at the back door. Dean shook his head, indicating that he hadn't been able to see anything through the windows he'd passed. Sam had come up similarly empty. They paused at the door, waiting to hear Bill's knock from the front, Sam giving Dean a stern glare until he took his place behind his little brother. The elder Winchester set his jaw in discontent, shaking his head tightly, but he allowed Sam to step forward nevertheless.

 

Bill's knock rang hollowly through the small dwelling, then a second time. Their cue to move. Sam dropped to a crouch and began quickly picking the lock. The procedure took less than ten seconds, Sam's trained hands accomplishing the task with nary a scratch nor a sound. He chanced a quick glance at Dean – just to make sure his brother wasn't about to charge forward – before ghosting the door silently open and stalking, cat-like into the small, chintzy kitchen. He was momentarily disorientated by polka dots and flower patterned surfaces before he regained his senses and continued smoothly onwards. He couldn't hear Dean behind him, but he knew his brother was there.

 

Framed pictures adorned the walls in the hallway; groups of women squeezed together, pouting at the camera, Emily and a man – probably a boyfriend. It was dizzying.

 

There was a miasmatic, resistant air in the place that made Sam feel as if he was wading through water. It smelled like death. And if Sam knew anything, he _knew_ death. The silence was unnerving but vacant. After a lifetime of sensing presences in the emptiest of places, Sam classed himself as an expert. But here he felt nothing. He was confident that no one was home.

 

The stench alone should have told him how wrong he was.

 

Sam saw the body lying in the bathroom as soon as he rounded the corner in the corridor, Dean's hissed expletive telling him that his big brother had seen it at the same time. Light was spilling in through frosted glass, bathing the figure in an eerie, ethereal light. The blood halo spoiled the picture; a tacky, ragged puddle of deepest red had clotted stickily on the pale tan tiles, rusty flecks blotted the white units and veiny trickles of blood had dripped down from a larger splatter on the glass shower screen. The woman's blonde tresses were matted on the right side of her head. She lay face down, arms bent at the elbows.

 

A gun was clasped loosely by fingers long since stiffened by rigor mortis.

 

“Sonofabitch,” Sam murmured, and then cleared his throat, still mindful of possible threats even though the scenario seemed pretty clear-cut. “Stay here,” he ordered his brother, who opened his mouth defiantly. “I mean it!” Sam hissed before Dean could protest, neatly shutting him up. The elder Winchester glared but gave a single, curt nod.

 

Sam drew his weapon and moved swiftly through the house, swinging tensely into each room and allowing the colt's barrel to precede him into every confined space he found. After a few tense seconds, he slid the gun away, certain there were no unwelcome stowaways. “We're clear!” he announced to Dean, moving with reluctance towards the front door to let Bill in.

 

The older man looked pissed as he stepped inside. “What the hell took you so long?”

 

“She's dead,” Sam said bluntly, moving back to allow the older man past. Somehow, Bill still managed to clip him with his shoulder, shoving him back a step.

 

“In that case, that was pretty fast work,” Bill glanced back with a raised eyebrow.

 

Sam treated him to his highest calibre scowl.

 

When they reached the bathroom, Dean was crouched over the body. He looked up as they approached, nodding in confirmation to Sam's unvoiced question. There was no doubt then, she was definitely dead. “Looks like she's been down a while,” Dean commented. “Stone cold.”

 

“What about the mask?” Bill asked, pausing at the doorway.

 

“Not in here,” Dean shrugged with his good shoulder. “Maybe it's somewhere in one of the other rooms.”

 

“Well then, let's get to work!” the older man ordered as he looked expectantly from brother to brother.

 

 


	6. The Game Changer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank my beta, Sharlot, from the bottom of my heart for giving her time and considerable skill to this chapter and for her always insightful comments. As usual, I've done some more tinkering with this, so any mistakes belong to me. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

**Chapter 6 – The Game Changer**

 

They spent more than an hour combing through the small house; muttered curses, heavy sighs and dusty sneezes the only sounds to accompany their efforts. Sam had seen so many floral patterned decorations, polka-dotted wallpaper and pictures of cats he was close to vomiting up a load of sugar and spice and all things nice. Or as his big brother had put it: a few minutes more and they'd be turning menstrual.

 

Dean.

 

It had been fruitless and frustrating. All three men growing steadily more hopeless.

 

Sam had benched a wavering, ashen Dean after the first half hour, directing him towards the nearest couch. And the elder Winchester had meekly obeyed, nearly disappearing beneath a pile of throws and candy-coloured cushions and doing nothing to ease Sam's concerns. He'd realised belatedly that his big brother hadn't taken any painkillers since earlier that morning and was most likely hurting in that patented Winchester suffer-in-silence way. Making a mental note to rectify that situation as soon as they returned to the Impala, Sam had refocused on the search, trying to speed up his efforts.

 

They'd found nothing in the end, reluctantly admitting defeat and quickly erasing any signs of their presence as best they could. Then Sam had manhandled a sluggish Dean out the back door, all the while aware of the furtive, assessing glances that Bill kept shooting their way. The younger man hadn't liked it, not one bit, but he'd had his hands full with his ailing brother. He'd filed it away for later analysis, though, for when he didn't have more important things to do, like get Dean doped up with more pain pills, call in an anonymous tip and get them the hell away before the police road show arrived.

 

Refuge had been sought at _Jim Bob's_ _Drinkery_ for a beer and a debrief. Predictably, Dean had refused any and all of Sam's attempts at medicating him, arguing that a few bottles of El Sol would cure all of his ills anyway. Not wanting to look or sound like a nagging wife in front of Bill, Sam had relented. Besides he had to admit, his big brother had certainly perked up after the delivery of _Jim Bob's Mega Extra Extra Huge Cheeseburger_ (with extra onions) – which to Sam, looked like a myocardial infarction in a seeded bun – and was heartily drawing on a beer.

 

The bar was as much of a dive as anywhere Dean tended to haunt. The air was ghostly with wisps of cigarette smoke, the jaundiced walls coated with nicotine. The dark wood of the tables and floor

was chipped and scratched, and Sam didn't think the place had seen a bottle of disinfectant since the dawn of time. The clientèle wasn't much better. A couple of surly locals were bitching with the bartender, while another, corpulent older man was swaying slightly against the far end of the bar top, lips silently monologuing.

 

There was a pool table in one corner, attracting a steady throughput. Dean had lit up at the sight, before visibly deflating at the apparent realisation that his pool-hustling career was on enforced hiatus. He'd come around as soon as Sam handed him the menu, though, his spirits buoyed at the prospect of grease and gristle.

 

“So, what's our next step?” Dean asked through a beefy mouthful, smirking when Sam narrowed his eyes in disapproval.

 

Dean's sense of urgency had definitely diminished since the previous night, Sam noted. But then, he'd been hopped up on adrenaline and anger. He'd calmed considerably since then, acknowledging that they couldn't start their own investigation of Emily Berger's death until the police had finished theirs. And that the leads weren't exactly coming thick and fast. They were stuck, so they might as well eat.

 

The younger Winchester picked at his wilted 'salad'. Clearly Jim Bob didn't put as much effort into food that wasn't aimed at clogging arteries. There was nothing mega, extra or huge about the bowl of browning, flaccid lettuce. “Canvass the neighbours?” he suggested, giving a small sigh when a suspiciously squidgy cherry tomato eluded his fork.

 

Bill snorted disagreeably. “And how long is that gonna take us, huh? While we're sittin' round with our thumbs up our asses, havin' tea and cookies with some old lady, that mask could be on its way anywhere!” The older man had been in a foul mood ever since they'd left Emily Berger's house, but Sam couldn't put his finger on why.

 

“What, you got a better idea?” Sam snapped back, finally spearing the disobedient tomato with a vicious stab. “Let me guess: getting a phonebook and starting from the top?”

 

Billy's eyes flashed darkly, and he took a breath, opening his mouth to respond but Dean got in first.

 

“Ladies, please, put the handbags away.” He shook his head, angling his beer towards his little brother. “Sam's right. We got nothin' here. We need to do some more diggin'.”

 

Sam tried to hide a grin, a little embarrassed at how bolstered he was by his brother's vote of confidence.

 

“That said,” Dean was continuing. “We're not writin' a research paper, here.” He looked at Sam, who bristled at the implied criticism. “We need to figure this out, and fast. Each time, it's usually been, what, within twenty-four hours?”

 

The other two men nodded.

 

“And we don't know when Emily died, right?”

 

They shook their heads.

 

“But it's getting quicker,” Sam pointed out. “The mask seems to be growing more powerful with each victim.”

 

“So what you're saying is, we got squat!” Bill thumped a meaty fist down on the table surface, causing the beer bottles to wobble threateningly.

 

“No,” Sam disagreed calmly, mentally calculating. “She can't have been dead more than a few hours. The smell was nowhere near bad enough, and there was still some give on her body, rigor mortis wasn't complete.” Somewhere at the back of his mind, Sam marvelled at his ability to hold such a morbid conversation over lunch, that he even knew that much about dead bodies at all.

 

Dean considered Sam's argument. “Okay, so it probably happened sometime last night.” He set his burger down and rubbed his free hand across his face. “Means we need to figure this out before tonight.”

 

“Cuttin' it fine!” Bill shook his head, looking at Dean with a half smile. “Kinda your MO, if memory serves!” He chuckled, mood lightening.

 

Dean ducked his head, pinkening. Sam couldn't tell if he was embarrassed or proud. “What can I say? I'm just that good!”

 

“I gotta hand it to ya, man. You found that Bruja quicker than I could have,” Bill went on, and Sam felt himself sit up straighter, his curiosity piqued. “And man, you really took one for the team!” the older hunter continued, guffawing lewdly.

 

Sam swivelled to look at his brother, rolling his eyes when Dean puffed out his chest. “Just doin' my research, dude. How _else_ was I supposed to find out if she had the devil mark on her ass?”

 

The two men laughed, evidently sharing a longstanding joke. Sam swallowed uncomfortably, uneasy at this sudden nostalgia, and feeling – though he'd be damned if he'd ever admit it – a little left out.

 

“Yeah, yeah, Casanova. By the time she was through with you–” Bill began.

 

Dean cleared his throat in warning, sending the older man a significant look until he fell silent. “S'why I hate witches!” he gave a closed-mouth smile as if attempting to dissipate the suddenly heavy atmosphere, and then popped the remainder of his burger in his mouth, chewing loudly. A classic manoeuvre straight from the Dean Winchester deflection playbook.

 

Sam decided that, as soon as this case was done, he was researching everything he could about Brujas.

 

Dean finished chomping and gulped, topping off the entire production with an earth-shattering belch. Sam could have sworn he felt the ground move.

 

“You done?” The younger Winchester asked with a pointed glare.

 

Dean patted his stomach affectionately. “Yep,” he nodded with a grin. “Now, are you two just gonna sit around, or are we gonna find this friggin' thing?”

 

Sam just snorted and pulled out his wallet. It wasn't even worth arguing.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

They'd waited until the uniformed officers had done their initial sweep of the neighbourhood before making their move.

 

“Okay, Sam and I can take this side,” Dean had gestured to the row of little houses flanking Emily Berger's. “Billy, you take the other.” In his periphery he had seen Sam relax ever so slightly, as if the kid had expected to go solo. He'd frowned internally, pondering his little brother's odd behaviour. Sam didn't like Billy, that much was clear, but the rest of it Dean was still trying to figure out.

 

“Fine by me,” the older man had shrugged, pivoting and striding across the street with a flick of the hand.

 

And Sam and Dean had begun their usual grunt work; tapping on doors, flicking their badges open, declining refreshments, deflecting the complaints of residents who were all interrogated out. The first house they tried was a bust, a young couple who had been away from home the previous night. The second house was empty the first time they tried, so they moved on to the next one, a family of five who'd seen nothing, heard nothing, and hell, didn't even know Emily Berger. Next on the block was a door opened by a waif-like teenager reeking of weed. No, he hadn't heard anything. He'd had his friends over the previous night, they'd just been talking. Or getting high. Either way it wasn't promising.

 

No one had heard a gunshot, which the hunters found hard to swallow, but over the years they'd learned that people often heard what they wanted to hear. In a quiet, sleepy suburb, no one wanted to hear a woman shooting herself.

 

Dejected, and growing more edgy – Dean starting to wish he'd taken those painkillers back at _Jim Bob's_ – the brothers had reconvened out on the street. There had been no sign of Billy, and no messages either. It looked like he'd had about as much luck as they had. For lack of another option, Dean had been about to call him when a car finally turned into the driveway of the second house. Emily's next door neighbour.

 

And that was when things began to look more promising.

 

“Yes?” Head cocked sideways, eyes shrewdly assessing, the elderly woman peered up at them as she pulled the door open. Silvery grey hair sat in rigid rows against her skull, like a ploughed field. Sagging, papery skin hung in drapes across her face, making her mouth droop and her eyes appear sunken and eroded.

 

Dean immediately glanced at his little brother, crinkling his eyes despite the urgency of the situation. _You're up, Sammy._ When Sam shot him a horrified scowl in return, his muscles ached with the effort of holding back a laugh. The kid had always had a way with older women, all dimples and bashful smiles, which Dean had used on many occasions and which he was more than happy to cultivate.

 

Sam shifted on the spot, limbering up. “Uh, ma'am, we're sorry to bother you,” he said from underneath his eyelashes, giving them a nervous flutter. “I'm Agent Hill, and this is my partner Agent Gibbons. We're, uh, we're investigating the events that occurred next door. You'll have spoken to the police earlier?”

 

“What?” the woman squawked, timbre and volume making it hard to tell if she was surprised or merely hard of hearing.

 

“We're investigating the events that occurred next door,” Dean repeated exaggeratedly, upping his volume and stepping closer.

 

“I heard, you dimwit!” The woman looked at him scathingly before turning back to Sam, her expression softening.

 

Dammit, but Sam really did have some kind of gift.

 

“I'm sorry, Mrs...?” Sam began hesitantly.

 

“It's Miss, actually, Miss Randy,” she looked coquettishly at the younger Winchester, eyes twinkling. “Randy by name, randy by nature!” She cackled, and to his credit, Sam made an admirable effort to join in. Dean was too busy trying not to toss his cookies.

 

“Can we come in, Miss?” Sam gave her aw shucks with one tiny smile. “We got a couple questions we'd like to ask you about Miss Berger.”

 

“Well, I don't know. You boys seem very nice,” she mused, looking only at Sam. “But I've already answered a lot of questions today. In any case, why are the FBI poking around in a little suburban suicide?”

 

The brothers exchanged a glance, Dean giving an infinitesimal shrug. This was Sam's play, not his.

 

“Uh...um,” Sam seemed to waver nervously, before he leaned closer to the woman, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I-I can't say, exactly. You understand?” He paused, going for the amateur dramatics. “You see, it's just that this is my very first case.” He gestured towards Dean. “I don't want to look like an idiot in front of my partner.”

 

Dean raised his eyebrows, surprised but impressed.

 

The woman nodded seriously. “Oh well, in that case why don't you boys come in. I'm sure I've got some cookies in the kitchen.” She winked at Sam and stood back to let them enter.

 

When Sam looked back at his big brother, he was blushing furiously, knowing Dean wasn't about to let him forget what he'd just done. He wasn't wrong.

 

The living room was stiflingly hot. Why did older people always seem to set their air-conditioning to sub-Saharan? Dean had been feeling his injuries more and more as the day went on, but they were almost unbearable now in the confines of his suit jacket. But he couldn't very well take it off, not when he was still strapped into that friggin' sling. Sam, however, immediately shrugged out of his jacket and laid it on the paisley patterned couch beside him. The bastard.

 

As if Sam could read his thoughts, the younger man looked over at him. Dean was expecting his brother to take full advantage of his misfortune, for Sam to toss him an amused smirk, but instead the kid's features were pinched in concern. _Oh yeah_ , Dean reminded himself, Sam was still set to clucky mode.

 

Miss Randy returned with a tray groaning under the weight of several enormous, craggy cookies. Dean eyed them worriedly, wondering if they were as solid as they looked. Neither of the brothers could afford a trip to the dentist.

 

“Now then, who wants a cookie? I made them myself, you know.”

 

Dean wanted to say no, oh how he wanted to say no. But Sam was giving him a glare that said in no uncertain terms that since he had already debased himself in order to get them into the house, Dean was damn well going to have to play his part too. The elder Winchester stifled a wince.

 

“Please,” he gave her a winning, closed-mouth smile. She stared back at him as if he'd just told her he liked to kick puppies in his spare time, but she nevertheless handed him a plate and napkin. She watched him expectantly as he raised the cookie to his lips, feeling absurdly like he was sitting some kind of exam. Sam was struggling to restrain a grin.

 

It was like biting into a handful of gravel. He forced back a groan as he chewed with little success on the biscuit, eventually gulping it down, trying not to gag as it scraped the back of his throat. “Delicious, thank you,” he croaked through abraded vocal chords. The woman seemed satisfied, and Dean sent up a silent prayer of thanks. There was no way he'd be able to take another bite of that thing.

 

Sam stepped in, giving him time to recover. “So, ma'am, Emily Berger was your next door neighbour?” He waited for her nod of confirmation. “Were you at home last night?”

 

“No, I was not, as it happens,” the woman answered, and Dean felt his heart plummet. He'd nearly sliced his oesophagus open on that friggin' cookie and for nothing?

 

“Oh,” Sam seemed as deflated as Dean. “Uh,” he began, uncertain, looking at his big brother in helplessness.

 

Dean cast his mind around, trying to find something that might give them an in. His eyes ricocheted from ugly china figurines, to a vase of brittle, dried flowers, to the crocheted wall hanging that he thought Miss Randy had probably made herself. Inspiration was thin. “Can you tell us what Miss Berger was like as a neighbour?” He asked, grasping at straws.

 

“Well, now!” the woman harrumphed in disapproval, and Dean's heart instantly bounced back. Were they finally about to get somewhere? “That girl! I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm sorry she's dead, but she's been threatening to do it for months. I'm not surprised she finally went through with it!”

 

“Excuse me?” Sam was frowning. “What do you mean?”

 

“That girl and her boyfriend...” Dean nodded to himself at her answer, remembering the photos they'd seen next door. “Always arguing! Carrying on into the small hours. I used to hear them going at it all the time...”

 

Both brothers leaned forward.

 

“ _I'm really going to do it this time!_ She'd say. _You can't leave me!_ It was always the same. _I'll end it all. I'll kill myself!_ Poor boy. I didn't think he'd have the balls to finally walk away from her, but I guess he must have, 'cause there she is. Dead.”

 

Holy crap. Dean met his brother's analytical gaze, seeing a similar glimmer of understanding.

 

“Why would you think he had somethin' to do with it?” Dean pressed, “I mean, if she was that close to the edge, she mighta gone and done it anyway?”

 

“Oh because I saw his car outside when I left to go visit my niece. That would have been around 8.30 last night.”

 

Bingo.

 

“Right, that's very helpful ma'am,” Sam was practically bouncing on the edge of his seat with the urge to leave, Dean hot on his heels. “Can you tell us his name?”

 

“Oh yes, he's a friend of my niece's, Derek Manning. He runs private flights out of the municipal airport, but not the sharpest tool, if you catch my drift,” that last was whispered secretively, as if hidden ears might be listening in.

 

The brothers shared a glance.

 

“Thanks for your time, ma'am,” Sam gifted her with another of his humble smiles, and it was all Dean could do not to roll his eyes when she simpered in response.

 

“Oh, I think you can call me Laura, young man. And _do_ come back if there's anything else I can help you with!”

 

When she winked suggestively, Sam almost fell over himself to escape the room. And despite the gravity of the situation, despite the fact they were running out of time, despite the fact that someone else was dead, Dean howled with laughter the second they cleared the front lawn.

 

o0o0o

 

 

“So, you think this guy Manning took the mask to the airfield?” Billy raised his eyebrows sceptically.

 

They had regrouped by the cars, sharing the information they'd gleaned from their respective canvassing efforts. Billy was leaning against his Pontiac with ostensible calm, but Dean could see a tense muscle twitching along his jawline. The older man had been brittle and tetchy since they'd come up empty-handed during their search of Emily's house. Dean could relate, frustrated and aching all over, but he wondered what else had gotten the other hunter's dander up.

 

“That's right.” Sam too, had been acting oddly, his dislike of Billy only seeming to grow as the day wore on. The kid's shoulders were practically hunched up around his ears, a permafrown furrowing his brows.

 

“Based on what?” Billy snorted dismissively, his eyes narrowing at Sam.

 

Dean shifted instinctively towards his brother, ignoring the way Sam's lips thinned in protest. He knew the kid was more than capable of fighting his own battles, but the way Sam and Billy were facing off held a sense of imminent carnage; like barrels of gunpowder waiting to spark. It would be up to him to break out the extinguisher. “C'mon, dude,” he attempted to calm his old friend. “Makes sense. Manning was there last night, we know that. It _also_ makes sense that the mask would drive Emily to kill herself, probably in front of him.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Billy held up a calloused hand, shaking his head. “That mask is s'posed to drive people to act out their inner fears, right? Sounds like the bitch _wanted_ to off herself.”

 

“She threatened to. Doesn't mean she would've _actually_ gone through with it!” Sam threw his arms out, and Dean took a step back, narrowly avoiding taking a blow to his injured shoulder. “Anyway, what does that even matter? It's not like there was anyone else around who could've taken the mask, and I don't hear you coming up with any better ideas! It's the only thing that fits.” It was a fair point, albeit delivered without the kid's usual meticulousness. Billy hadn't turned up anything of use from his own interviews, but it wasn't like Sam to take cheap shots.

 

Dean raised his hand to his temple, trying to massage away the throbbing pains that had taken up residence some hours back. He felt like hammered crap; exhausted, lead-limbed and aching. And the raised voices weren't helping.

 

“Alright, alright,” Billy conceded, but with ill-temper. “I'll give you that one. But why the airport, huh?” He turned to Dean and pointed a lecturing finger. “We can't afford to take chances on some crackpot theory.”

 

The elder Winchester bristled on his brother's behalf. “I think Sam's right,” he stood his ground and set his jaw. “It's the best guess we have right now. If this guy flies a plane...” He shuddered involuntarily. Planes. “Think about it. The mask looks for destruction, right? I'm thinkin' a plane crash would do that.”

 

“And I'll bet it's one of Manning's biggest fears, as a pilot,” Sam interjected smugly, lip twitching as he looked at Billy.

 

Dean could see the rays of acceptance begin to dawn in Billy's eyes before the older man gave a stiff nod. “Okay. I'm in.”

 

“Good,” the elder Winchester nodded back, eager to get moving now that they were finally all in agreement. “How do you wanna do this? Someone needs to check out Manning's home. He might still be there.”

 

“How about Sam does that,” Billy suggested, giving the younger Winchester a calculating look that Dean might have missed if he hadn't been staring directly at him. “You and I can head to the airfield.”

 

Dean studied Billy for a beat, sensing the mutual dislike between his brother and his old friend more strongly than ever. Twice now, Billy had tried to send Sam off on his own. Dean couldn't quite get his head around the why of it, he just knew there was no way he was allowing it to happen. “No, Sammy and I go together.” He sensed more than saw his brother's agreement, and when he turned to look at the younger man, there was something indefinable in Sam's gaze. There was the expected relief, an odd level of surprise, unvoiced solidarity...but there was something else there that he couldn't discern. Something which suggested a lot more had been going on beneath the kid's surface than Dean had realised. But there wasn't time for that now.

 

“We'll take the airfield,” Sam declared, emboldened and readying himself for a fight. Dean had also tensed for imminent battle. Billy was not a man who liked to be cut out of the action, and he'd made that clear back at Emily Berger's place.

 

The older hunter slid his eyes from brother to brother before shrugging nonchalantly. “Alright, if that's the way you wanna play it, Dean,” he shifted to open the Pontiac's driver door. “You call me if you find him.”

 

“Yeah, likewise,” Dean cocked his head, off balance at the lack of protest.

 

“Wait,” Sam stepped forward, picking up their duffel of supplies. “Don't you wanna take some of this? You'll need a copy of the incantation too, just in case.”

 

“What?” Billy looked blank for a split second before he rallied. “Oh yeah, good thinkin'.” He waited as Sam halved the spell ingredients and accepted the bag with a gravelly thanks. Nodding at Dean, he slid into the driver's seat and loudly gunned the engine, saluting the brothers as he drove off.

 

Sam turned to face Dean, still frowning. “Did that seem too easy to you?”

 

Dean felt himself tense up again. “Yeah, so?”

 

“Something doesn't feel right, Dean. I don't trust him.”

 

“Yeah, you made that pretty clear. Look, Sam, you're not his biggest fan, I get that. But you're gonna have to park it, okay? Important thing is we find this damn thing and put it to bed.”

 

“Fine, okay,” Sam held his palms up. “But I don't like it,” he muttered under his breath.

 

Dean heard him but chose not to pursue it. “Let's just get goin', huh?” He took a step towards the Impala, but turned back to Sam, a brow raised quizzically as he gestured vaguely with his free hand. “I uh, I guess we don't have time to get outta these friggin' monkey suits, huh?”

 

His only answer was a bitchface.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

The municipal airport was surprisingly well kept, quaint. Dean didn't know exactly what he'd expected, but it had probably involved something to do with rolling tumbleweeds and flimsy model aircraft that looked as if they'd been glued together by a five year old.

 

But, as Sam had taken great scholarly delight in educating him – with the air of a local tour guide puffing out his chest – the state university had taken on a significant role in running the small airfield. With the richness of college funding there had been upgrades and developments and refurbishments, making the place look neat and well-tended. Quite how the kid knew that, Dean hadn't a clue, but it annoyed him nonetheless. Sam had a tendency to absorb any and all things college-related as if by osmosis.

 

Sam was right, though, he had to admit. The grounds were tidy, the grass painstakingly trimmed. There were no potholes on the runway. The dainty airport terminal was the size of a shoebox, but had been painted a smooth, pristine cream and was obviously cared for.

 

If felt strange, somehow, stalking past; their heightened state of alert, the seriousness of their mission incongruous to their innocuous surroundings. It hadn't taken long to slink past the minimal security. They'd parked the Impala in an unobtrusive spot and had stuck to the shadows with ease, heading toward a row of darkened hangars to the north. They hadn't had time to find out which of the planes was Manning's, or which of the buildings housed it. Making a trade-off between intel and inconspicuousness, they'd decided to just break in and look for signs of life in each hangar. Neither of them liked going in blind, but they'd wasted enough time. The airfield was reassuringly silent, but that didn't mean Manning wasn't about to start taxiing.

 

Assuming he was there, and not at home. Billy hadn't given any indication either way.

 

The air oozed Southern humidity and Dean tracked a bead of sweat as it trickled down the back of his neck. His head continued to pulse with a dull ache and his injured shoulder felt stiff and twice its size. The duffel seemed to be growing heavier and heavier with each step, and Dean was beginning to regret insisting that Sam have both his hands free to fight and draw his weapon. He knew he was moving slower than usual, several paces behind his little brother where he would normally have been leading.

 

As if reading his thoughts, Sam glanced back at him, concern pockmarking his forehead. He tilted his head in silent query, the ' _you okay?'_ as audible as if he'd uttered it aloud. Dean nodded too quickly, feeling his brain sloshing and seeing Sam narrow his eyes. The younger man held his gaze for a long moment before letting out a soft sigh and continuing onwards. Dean closed his eyes and swallowed, glad Sam couldn't see, and then wobbled after him.

 

They reached the side of the long row of hangers, skirting the perimeter and around to the first entrance. Sam halted at the corner, peering past. His shoulders dropped, letting Dean know that no one was loitering outside. The younger Winchester tossed another glance over his shoulder, this time informing Dean that he was about to move. Dean tried to make himself believe that he was ready to follow, but he was worried his spaghetti legs wouldn't hold his weight much longer.

 

When Sam carefully glided around the corner, Dean dragged himself along in his wake. He could feel the sweat building on his brow now, beginning to simmer in the heat. He swallowed thickly, wishing he'd taken a larger gulp of water before leaving the Impala, even though it had been nauseatingly lukewarm. He watched as Sam examined each entrance, cautious but swift as he scanned for signs of life.

 

They had nearly reached the halfway mark when Dean saw his brother tense up. Sam was alert, rigid like a Pointer. He paused before the small entrance to the hangar, letting Dean's gaze follow his to the sliver of light peeking from beneath the entryway. The large, electronic door was firmly shut, to their relief. It meant that Manning wasn't ready to go, yet. Dean nodded at Sam, signalling his readiness to put their plan into action. The younger man was wearing the pinched expression that always signified resigned disapproval and conflicting emotions. Sam was far from happy with the plan, but he couldn't exactly argue either.

 

Sam turned to his big brother, nailing him with an implicit _be careful_. Dean could only offer a flimsy smile in response before accepting the duffel with his free hand.

 

Sam reached forward and tried the handle, easing it downwards with a studious, fluid movement. Dean hated to be so incapacitated, but with one arm strapped up in a sling, he couldn't hold the duffel and open the door. There was a dull clink and an excruciating scrape, making both men wince involuntarily, but then the door eased inward without a sound. The brothers stood still for several beats, holding their breath. When nothing and no one jumped out at them, Dean gathered his strength and stepped forwards, slipping through the doorway.

 

The light was dimmer than he'd expected, two utilitarian, fluorescent strips suspended from the flat, corrugated roof casting a pallid light down onto the small Cessna craft. It was an off-white colour, wings spread out and up like a gliding possum. Its snout was bulbous, a propeller – stationary – attached to its tip, and its wheels were planted wide apart in the classic gunman's stance. There was a shuffling, tinkering noise coming from the other side, towards the rear, and Dean could see legs when he bent to catch a glimpse under the craft's belly.

 

Dean crept forward, steeling himself as he debated whether to go front or back. He decided that the rear would be easiest for his brother to get to, so he stalked towards the nose of the craft, very aware of the heaviness of his breathing in the stifling space. As he grew nearer, he began to pick up a low, mumbling sound, the words becoming crisper as he started to round the propeller.

 

The same words Marsha Parrish had used, he was sure of it.

 

“Hey Ipkiss!” Dean bellowed as he swung around to the other side of the Cessna. The first thing he saw was the mask's leering grimace as it swivelled to face him. “'Fraid I'm gonna have to stop ya there, buddy,” he growled, fighting back images of the masked Erikson at the mall, robotically gunning down civilians as they fled.

 

Manning's eyes were wide and white behind the mask, his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. There was no emotion, just milky blankness.

 

“Yeah, that's right, come and get it!” Dean goaded, beaming Manning his widest, most irritating grin. The one he usually reserved for pissing off his brother.

 

It worked. Manning carefully set down the object he'd been clutching – a canister, most likely fuel of some kind, Dean noted – and stepped with deliberateness towards the elder Winchester. The ancient Aztec, or whatever the hell it was he was muttering, seemed to increase in volume and urgency. Manning's hands tightened into fists, thick veins bulging starkly on his forearms. He continued mechanically forwards, a horrible inevitability about the steps.

 

_Any time, Sammy._ Dean swallowed, nervous. He was in no position to fight off the hopped up pilot, and he knew it.

 

Beginning to step away, he finally caught sight of his brother sneaking up from the back end of the Cessna. But Dean schooled his features, using his inscrutable poker face to hide Sam's approach. He stood his ground, meeting Manning's creepy, intent eyes. And waited, heart pounding.

 

Dean purposefully avoided looking at his brother, but a lifetime of surviving together, of finishing each other's thoughts and knowing what the other was about to do before they did it...all of it meant that the elder hunter could tell from the faintest movement in his periphery that Sam was about to make his move.

 

When his brother leapt for Manning, Dean was ready. He heard the thud of colliding bodies, the grunts, groans and gasps. The smacking of pounded flesh. But he couldn't take advantage of his ringside seat; there was work to be done. He tried to block out the sounds of the fight as he dropped to a crouch. His legs shook and wobbled at the strain of his position as he fumbled to unzip the duffel of spell ingredients with his left hand. The zip moved in fits and starts, and Dean's pulse quickened further as he felt the pressure to get the spell set up. The fear that his kid brother would get hurt because of his own incompetence spurred him on.

 

Finally getting the duffel open, he upended it, tipping the contents out onto the concrete with a clatter. He grabbed the small pewter bowl and began adding the ingredients. He started with the base of dog blood and ground bones that Sam had mixed the previous day, sprinkling and stirring in the different spices as the spell dictated. Parts of the incantation had to be read as each item was added but Sam would do the final, extended rite once the spell had been prepared.

 

Grasping for the last baggie of ground Cayenne pepper, Dean heard Sam grunt out a “Guh!” of pain. His head snapped up, and he caught sight of his reeling brother, bloody-nosed and breathing heavily. Worried for Sam, he couldn't help but watch, the baggie still clutched, unopened in his fist. Seeing his brother's gun lying a few feet away, where Sam had evidently dropped it during the fight, Dean quickly set the last ingredient down and scuttled over to it. He snatched it up and pivoted unsteadily back to the continuing brawl. Sam had gotten in another solid right hook, but he was listing like a ship in distress.

 

“Look alive, Sammy!” Dean yelled, tossing the gun toward his brother. Even with his weaker hand, his aim was true, and Sam caught it with a businesslike flick of his wrist. Dean watched as the younger man lifted the gun high and brought the butt heavily down on Manning's head. The pilot went down like a sack of potatoes.

 

And when the unexpected blow came from behind, so did Dean.

 

 

 


	7. The Call of the Mask

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank my pal Sharlot for her stellar beta work on this chapter and for her invaluable insights and suggestions. I've done my usual tweaking after getting her notes, so any mistakes are mine.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction

o0o0o

 

**Chapter 7 – The Call of the Mask**

 

 

It really hadn't been one of Dean's better days.

 

He hit the floor, hard; the momentum throwing the full weight of his body forward onto his injured collarbone. The explosion of pain mushroomed, obliterating his senses as it engulfed the world. His vision fuzzed and blurred, a furry rainbow strobing like the feed from a bad antenna. Disorientated, Dean lost track of where his limbs were, of where _he_ was. His head rang with a heavy, bell jar soundlessness. He scrabbled to take the pressure off his injury, but his movements were sluggish and off balance, sending his stomach into a sickening barrel roll as the fire in his shoulder continued to blaze.

 

“Dean!” He heard Sam's frantic warning, but it came too late, from somewhere far, far away.

 

Seconds later and the elder Winchester was yanked upwards with a violence that nearly tipped him over. He grunted in surprise, only managing to draw half a breath before an arm encircled his throat and squeezed. Inky blots replaced the colours in his vision and he gagged, swallowing abruptly as the cold, predatory barrel of a gun prodded him below the ribs. He felt himself being pulled backwards by the throat while the gun jabbed insistently. Losing his footing, he choked as his Adam's apple bounced off the beefy forearm that held him.

 

“Steady now.” Billy's voice in his ear. “No funny business!”

 

Billy?

 

 _Sonofabitch!_ Dean raged  silently, impotently; furious that the older man – his _friend_ – had gotten the drop on him. But...what the hell? This was _Billy_. The guy who'd saved his life. The man who'd served alongside his father.

 

“Let him go!” Sam demanded, livid; the words booming around the hangar. With cold determination, the younger man raised the gun he'd used to take out Manning and aimed steadily at Billy. His breathing was laboured, blood still trickling from his nostrils and from the split skin at the corner of his mouth, and Dean could tell his brother was scared. And as much as he hated Sam having to come to his rescue, Dean hated seeing that even more.

 

The arm tightened around his throat. Struggling for air, Dean fought through the haze, trying to calculate the angle of Sam's shot. Damn, it was going to be close.

 

“You're not gonna shoot me,” Billy wheezed. “I'll blow another hole through your brother before you can even blink.”

 

Sam's jaw clenched, his eyes venomous.

 

“Now, I want that mask, and you're gonna give it to me.” Billy's voice hardened, and he took another step backwards, dragging Dean with him.

 

 _Don't even think about it, Sammy!_ Dean wanted to growl, but the elder Winchester's protest never made it past his lips as Billy choked him once more. He saw Sam jerk in response, but the kid stayed true to his training, his aim never wavering.

 

“All this...” Sam sneered, staring at Billy with unbridled disgust. Dean could tell the kid was stalling, desperately trying to think of a plan. His eyes darted to Dean every few seconds, and the elder Winchester tried to help him, to reassure him, but his thoughts were becoming more and more syrupy; his oxygen dwindling. “All this for that damned mask! You were after it all along, weren't you?”

 

Dean felt the gun press harder into the tender flesh below his ribs and he couldn't suppress a wince. A gut shot. As far away as they were from help, there was no way he'd survive it.

 

“You have any idea how much people will pay for this thing?” Billy laughed, and Dean's heart plummeted. “More'n enough to make it worth droppin' a few bodies.” Dammit, but Sammy had been right all along. It all made sense now, his brother's uneasy suspicion. Clearly the former marine had only ever been out for what he could gain, no matter who he had to use and discard along the way. Shame burned raw, but Dean pushed it down. Later, when they got out of this, he'd give himself the pounding he was due.

 

Sam's mouth tightened into a grim line. He didn't look surprised at the revelation. “You don't want to do this, Bill. Just let Dean go and we can talk about it.” His breaths came in heavy pants as he visibly tried to hold on to his fury. “I swear, if you hurt him, I will end you!” He snarled, teeth bared.

 

Dean felt Billy's head shake and again he was manhandled backwards like a ragdoll. “Uh, uh. I got a buyer lined up ready an' waitin'. I ain't about to let that mask go. I don't care what I gotta do.” He drove the gun harshly into Dean's gut. The elder Winchester let out a strangled groan, the sound muffled by the arm at his throat as he folded forwards.

 

Sam's arm wobbled.

 

Dean snagged his brother's gaze and tried wordlessly to protest, sensing that the kid was moments away from caving. They couldn't let Billy get the mask, not to save his worthless hide. There were too many evil people in the world who were capable of using it for purposes he didn't even want to contemplate. Any one of them could be Billy's buyer. They had to stop him.

 

But Sam was looking anguished, and for the briefest of moments, Dean saw him as the young boy he'd helped raise; lost and unsure without his big brother's guiding hand. He watched the interplay of emotions crossing his little brother's features as the seconds tensely ticked by, could see the warring factions, the opposing arguments. He knew the instant the battle was won.

 

Or lost.

 

“Alright, alright!” Sam blurted. “I'll give you the mask. Just let him go!”

 

“Atta boy.” Dean didn't need to see the grin to know it was there, and his fists clenched in helplessness. “Put the gun down, nice and slow.” Billy ordered, still keeping a tight hold on Dean, apparently worried that Sam would attempt to double-cross him.

 

“Okay,” Sam gave a stiff nod, holding the gun away from his body and gingerly lowering it to the ground. He placed it several feet in front of him and then looked up at Billy, his eyes bouncing to Dean's. Checking.

 

Resigned, Dean blinked slowly in capitulation, a band of nausea tightening around his stomach. He watched as Sam reached towards Manning's unconscious form. The mask had slipped from the young pilot's face and was propped against his skull, mouth grimacing at a lopsided angle. Sam grasped it, lifting it carefully upwards, staring intently at it. And then he paused.

 

Dean felt Billy tense up behind him.

 

Crap.

 

“Sammy!” Dean choked out, his voice barely a wheeze. “Don't!”

 

“Sam, give that to me, _now_. Or I'll kill your brother!” Billy bellowed past Dean's ear, making him flinch.

 

But Sam didn't appear to be concerned by this latest threat to his big brother, didn't even appear to be aware of anything except the object in his grasp. With slow deliberateness, he lifted the mask to his face. There was a flare of blue-grey light as it connected, and when Sam removed his hands, it stayed there as if glued. He turned towards them, the chanting starting up as if he'd been unmuted mid-speech. The words sounded odd and disturbing coming from his lips

 

Dean could sense Billy's indecision as his eyes tracked his brother's, the arm at his throat loosening a fraction, the gun no longer digging so forcefully into his side.

 

And then Sam moved with a speed that neither of them expected. Every person they'd seen, or heard about, who'd been affected by the mask had walked and talked and thought like zombies, had taken time to work up to their destructive acts. But Sam's hand pounced for the gun like a striking cobra, snatching the firearm up so quickly Dean's head spun.

 

A beat later and the gun was pointed at them again, but this time there was nothing in Sam's gaze. His eyes were as white and dully cold as Manning's had been. Sam was gone.

 

“Son of a bitch!” Billy spat. His own weapon vanished from Dean's side and the elder Winchester could do nothing as the older man drew a bead on Sam.

 

There was a horrible, anticipatory silence as fingers tightened on triggers.

 

And a shot rang out.

 

o0o0o

 

It started off in slow motion.

 

The hit was dull, broad like a two-by-four, and Dean's breath caught in his throat as Billy jolted behind him, confusion temporarily overriding awareness as body and brain struggled to comprehend what had just happened. Numbness followed in the slipstream of the bullet's passage, rippling outwards from the wound and leaving a horrible expectancy in its place; a strange vacuum of calm taking over before the inevitable storm broke. Coldness spread to the tips of his fingers and toes, prickles dancing in its wake.

 

Then the full, pyroclastic force of the pain devoured him, seismic waves of agony rolling over and over. White stalactites stabbed at his vision and for a moment the world was a centrifuge, Dean at its core. He couldn't see past the bulky arm that still encircled his throat, but he could feel molten blood beginning to leak from somewhere beneath. His strapped up hand felt slick and slimy with it.

 

He'd just been shot. _Grazed_ , he realised faintly. Same shoulder. Almost the same wound. He wanted to laugh, a heady, hysterical laugh. He'd just been shot again. Sam had just shot him.

 

And that was when everything started to fast-forward.

 

When Billy began to fall, it took every ounce of Dean's waning strength not to go down fully with him. He could feel his heart battering frenetically in his ears, floundering as if in the midst of its death throes, and it felt like the pain alone would suck the life from him. The arm was still around his neck, but heavier now, lifeless, wrenching at him as though Bill was an anchor to be weighed. And the strain felt as if it would snap his neck in two.

 

Pulled downwards, he tried to twist around to regain his balance. One knee hit the ground with enough force to make his teeth rattle; his head spun, his shoulder screamed. He lurched sideways, struggling to keep himself upright as Billy's weight still dragged at him. Everything was noise and chaos, a tumult raging between his ears as he tried to figure out which was was up.

 

But somewhere beyond the cacophony, Dean was aware that he didn't have time for any of it, and as adrenaline flooded his body, his senses began to sharpen. The sudden clarity was disorientating. Where his thoughts had previously been oozing, they were now avalanching. Several certainties were converging on him, clamouring for his attention. Sam had shot him. Sam had killed Billy. Sam was wearing the mask. Sam had a gun. And Dean was leaving himself wide open.

 

Sam's greatest fear...It was about to become a reality if Dean didn't do something now.

 

Growling through the agony in his shoulder, he ruthlessly shoved Billy away from him and heaved himself upwards. He barely heard the thud as his father's former comrade hit the concrete. He was heading straight for Sam. The mask would only have one goal, and Dean was damned if he was going to let the thing succeed. The blood was still spurting from the gunshot wound – from _both_ wounds – he realised now, the first one already torn at the seams. He wouldn't have long before blood loss slowed him down...but he wasn't prepared to die yet. Sam needed him too much. His only option was to disarm his brother.

 

There was no reaction in the younger man's eyes as Dean moved, his expression hidden behind the mask's rigid leer. Dean tried to forget that it was Sam – that it was his kid brother – it was the only way he'd have a fighting chance. Lungs heaving, he threw himself towards Sam, leading with his undamaged shoulder and bracing himself for a collision that might just finish him anyway. Going for Sam's weapon, Dean ploughed into his brother.

 

It was like running head first into a wall. The impact jarred Dean's bones from top to toe, reverberating in his chest and ricocheting along his fragile, recently fixed collarbone. He felt it splinter anew, the sudden resurgence of pain burning through all the air in his lungs and short-circuiting his brain. He thought he might have cried out, but with all his senses dampened and overwhelmed by agony, he couldn't be certain. All he knew was that on the inside, he was howling.

 

But Dean Winchester was not about to be defeated by his own body. He'd spent years cultivating a tolerance for pain that allowed him to focus on nothing else but the survival of his family and himself. And he had no doubt that it wasn't just his own life he was fighting for. If Sam woke up to find him dead...

 

Fiercely, Dean built a dam in his mind, holding back the torment, shoring it up with his unyielding determination, not only to live, but to stop Sam from having to bear the weight of killing his big brother.

 

Dean grabbed for the gun, speed and the element of surprise briefly gaining him the upper hand. Sam's stance was rock hard, but when Dean rebounded off him and staggered off to the side, he realised with faint surprise that he'd gotten what he'd aimed for. The gun hung loose in his grip, though, his fingers shaking as his strength began to wane. His breaths came in increasingly shorter, shallower gasps and his head was filling with a swirling, murky fog. Sam had already turned to follow him, and Dean was sure he wouldn't be able to last the impending battle.

 

He stood for several helpless beats, realising too late that he hadn't made any plans beyond grabbing the gun. “Sam!” his voice broke as he called out in the vain hope that he might be able to get through to his brother before masked-Sam pounded him into the concrete. “Sammy, listen to me! You have to _fight_ this!” He stumbled back several steps, but there was no sign that his words had had any effect. Sam continued to advance on him, and with a growing dread Dean realised just how _big_ his little brother really was.

 

“Dammit!” the elder Winchester hissed, his breaths still laboured as the earlier numbness returned, seeping down his right side. Despite his best efforts, his body was giving up, shutting up shop and boarding up the windows. He wasn't going to be able to withstand this.

 

When the first punch came, it slammed into him with the force of a bullet train. Dean pitched sideways, his balance whirling around the room like a spinning top. His ears popped and the ground see-sawed.

 

The second blow smashed in from the opposite direction, rupturing his bottom lip and sending him reeling back the way he'd just come. Blood streamed freely from burst skin above his eyebrow, dripping straight into his eye and blurring his vision. He still had the gun, a weapon he couldn't even use in his nerveless left hand, but he held on tight, determined not to let it go. Maybe as long as he had it, masked-Sam wouldn't notice Billy's gun lying just a few feet away.

 

Dean floundered, insensible of direction or purpose, except to get away from his brother. Backing away, his heel nudged against something soft and bulky; Billy's wrist. It was a stark reminder of what the mask was capable of, if he'd needed one. In a daze, he skirted the body of his former friend and continued to stagger backwards.

 

He stared at Sam, knowing his brother wasn't really there, but wanting – needing – a last look. This was the end of the line, and he knew it. “Sam...” he groaned, his tortured body throbbing and gasping for air. “S'mmy, if...there's even the sm-smallest ch-chance...that you might remember any of this...” he faltered, feeling lightheaded and non-corporeal. “It's not your fault.”

 

Sam continued forward with the same cold, robotic steps.

 

“It's not...your fault. And you're gonna be okay.” Dean managed, his chest tightening, blood pooling in the crook of his strapped elbow. He braced himself as Sam drew nearer.

 

When the crash came, it wasn't what Dean expected.

 

Time turned viscous once more, but his brain couldn't seem to keep pace with his eyes. The scene played out through the lengthening telescope of his vision. Sam reached Billy's body and stepped past, obliviously intent on his target. Dean's eyes widened as Billy's hand twitched, as his fingers grasped at the flapping material of Sam's left pant leg, fisting it tightly. Dean's mouth tumbled open, astonished at the realisation that the older man was still alive. He stood rooted to the spot as Billy yanked backwards with extraordinary strength. Caught off guard, Sam toppled backwards, hitting the ground with a solid thump.

 

It was the defibrillator charge Dean needed. He jolted back to life, another potent shot of adrenaline yanking him from his stupor and sending him blundering forward, gun in hand. He was at Sam's side before his masked brother could move a muscle. The kid's eyes were flat and sterile as they locked onto his. It wasn't Sam, he tried to tell himself. Not Sam. Dean averted his gaze, unable to look at his brother as he did what needed to be done.

 

“Sorry, S'my,” his apology was sincere as he raised the gun, letting out a gasp as the motion pulled at his upper body, and cracked it down as hard as he could on his brother's temple. Sam's head pitched from side to side at the blow, his eyes slamming shut and the mask sliding off as if nothing had ever held it there.

 

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding, slumping forward as his muscles dissolved. He was shaking as he exaggeratedly blinked his eyes, trying to keep himself from passing out. Darkness prowled at the edges of his vision, waiting to pounce, waiting for an opening. But he couldn't succumb, not yet. There was still work to be done.

 

The elder Winchester groaned loudly as he lifted his head, giving voice to all his pain, frustration and exhaustion. His skull felt too heavy for his body, as if someone had replaced it with a bowling ball. His right and left sides felt disconnected from each other, a strange impermanence stealing over him. He didn't have long to do this. Taking a shuddering breath, he cleared his throat, swallowing back the stowaway sob that sought escape. He needed to get the job done. He had to finish this.

 

The elder Winchester glanced back at Billy. The older man was still, lifeless, the act of coming to Dean's aid most likely being his last. He inched to Billy's side, checking his pulse, needing to make sure that there was no lingering threat to Sam while he finished the spell. Satisfied that the older hunter would no longer be a problem, he returned his attention to his mission.

 

He crawled first to the small Cessna, figuring that there was likely to be a first aid kit somewhere in its cabin. At the rate he was bleeding, he wasn't confident that he'd be able to remain conscious for much longer. He needed to find something he could press against the wound.

 

The small set of steps was already pulled down, and as thankful as he was for that small mercy, Dean nevertheless eyed it with the utmost dread. Cursing, he reached up behind his neck with his free hand and began fumbling with the clasp of his sling; he couldn't afford to be one-handed anymore. Releasing the straps he cast the contraption aside, gritting his teeth against the tectonic agony of bone grinding against bone. Light-headed, the hunter used his good arm to drag himself up the stairs one at a time, his vision whiting out with each step.

 

By the time he'd made it into the small cabin, he felt soaked with sweat and blood, the heat all around him suffocating and leeching. The kit, when he found it behind one of the rear seats, took several tense moments to open. With Dean's dwindling energy, the zip was a lead weight, refusing to budge.

 

“Aw...C'mon!” he pleaded with the red canvas bag, convinced it was all going to end there and then, when he was so close. But then the zip flew open, sending a shower of supplies scattering like marbles. The gauze was what he needed, though, and he grabbed at it, wadding it up and placing it in the palm of his weakened hand, contorting his injured limb as far as he could to press down on his haemorrhaging wounds. He hissed at the dual stabs of pain that assailed him, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Through his blurring vision, he could see vials and syringes. For a moment he considered it, but just as quickly dismissed it. He needed to be alert.

 

Lurching back towards the plane door, he almost nosedived straight out onto the concrete, catching himself at the last minute with a grip that wrenched so hard he thought his arm might just tear clean off. Reaching the ground, his knees locked and would have buckled but for his determination to maintain his forward motion. Making it back to his brother's side, he dropped to the ground harder than he would have liked, air leaving his lungs in a rush as the thunderbolt impact struck the base of his spine.

 

Not even trying to suppress the pained grunts that had started to accompany every breath, he fumbled with the pocket of Sam's suit jacket; but all sensation seemed to have vanished from his fingers and he struggled to make them follow his commands. Finally locating the piece of folded paper he needed, he engaged in a brief tug of war with the pocket lining, too exhausted to voice the curses that sprang to his lips. He emerged the victor moments later, wrestling the piece of paper free and smoothing it out across his knee.

 

The words wriggled like freshly unearthed worms.

 

“Son'f'bitch,” he wheezed, laying it down on the concrete and pinching at the bridge of his nose. How the hell was he going to do this? “D'mmit,” he cursed again as he remembered that the ritual was still unfinished. He glanced around, eyes locating the discarded baggie on the other side of Billy's body.

 

“Awwwwe-some,” he slurred as he grasped the wrinkled piece of paper and clambered to his knees. His first messy attempt at standing made it clear that his legs would not hold him, so he drunkenly crawled his way past Billy's corpse, lumbering towards the bowl of unfinished spell ingredients. He cast the dead hunter a long look as he did so. Dean knew his father's old buddy had lost his way some time ago, he could see now the truth in all of the accusations Sam had hurled at him. He understood how things had been, but he was still sorry.

 

“Th'nks, buddy,” Dean's eulogy was brief, but his own body was running on borrowed time.

 

By the time he reached the bowl, breathing was painful, his lungs tight and compressed. He let the incantation flutter down as he reached for the final ingredient with his free hand. His fingers were as limp and cumbersome as sausages as he struggled to open the bag. Little clouds of ground chilli pepper puffed up and out when he eventually managed, stinging his eyes further and threatening a sneeze. Dean stiffened and squeezed his eyes shut, convinced he was done for, but after a few slow, shuddering heaves the feeling passed.

 

Confident that he had regained at least some semblance of control, Dean poured the pepper into the bowl, holding the bag as far away from himself as he could. He grunted out the final word and pulled out his lighter with painstaking care, trying to ignore the tremors in his arm as he touched the flame to the mixed spell ingredients. Sparks shot up with a crackle, and the mixture darkened and popped.

 

Dean was reaching for the written incantation when the urge hit him; the irresistible urge to leave it alone, to turn around, to go to the mask, to put it on. To forget. He could feel his body readying to respond, limbs moving without his consent, the mask his puppeteer. Every facet of his attention turned back towards the mask as though it were a magnet. Its promise was enchanting, seductive, the compulsion to give in more potent than anything Dean had ever experienced before. His hand stopped in mid-air, his body beginning to swivel on the spot.

 

The pain from his wounds was like a living thing, devouring him from the inside, more powerful with every passing second. The mask beckoned to him with the promise of peace, of oblivion. It pushed and pulled at him, imploring him to let go. If he went to the mask, if he just touched it to his face, the boiling, scalding pain would evaporate.

 

“Nuuhhh!” he groaned, bowing his head and clutching at the gauze, pain steaming from his wounds with a hiss that squealed loudly in his head. It would be so easy...why was he even fighting?

 

His eyes twitched shut as images assaulted him, attacking and conquering his senses.

 

_Crowds of people scattering and stampeding like startled cattle...the visceral stench in the air as blood spilled onto pale tiles...the stinging slap of bodies hitting the floor...screams, sobs, groans...death ...Sam's eyes, white and cold...Sam pulling the trigger...Sam marching_ _ vacantly _ _towards him._

 

Sam.

 

Dean's eyes snapped open, the mask's presence in his mind growing fainter, stuttering and flickering.

 

Sam. His worst fear. Sam would die if he went to the mask.

 

Sam would die.

 

Twenty-seven years and a lifelong vow began to break the mask's hold, its draw beginning to fade.

 

Sammy would _die_. He would _kill_ his brother. Dean couldn't let that happen. There was no _way_ he was letting that happen.

 

“No!” Dean growled, feeling the mask's hold snap and disappear.

 

Coming back to himself, the elder Winchester snatched up the incantation, dizzy as his heart began to pound again, the pain somehow magnified now that the mask's anaesthetising effect had vanished. He didn't have much time. Gritting his teeth, he began to read, the words sounding foreign to his ears as his lips mangled them. He thought he'd heard Sam practising them earlier, but the pronunciation was still alien.

 

Dean had incanted many spells over the course of his life. He'd banished demons and poltergeists. He'd bound witches. He'd summoned and trapped monsters of all shapes and sizes. He'd felt the air around him thrum with electrical energy, his skin prickling with the sense of bated anticipation. Spells had a substance to them that ebbed and flowed, the words of the incantation bringing forth a tangible force that shifted and turned like a Rubik's cube, always changing, never static.

 

So when the first few lines of Sam's scrawled text dropped with a heavy clunk, the hangar silent and flat around him, Dean knew he was getting it wrong.

 

The words fuzzed and blotted on the page as he coughed out a muffled curse. He had to slow down, had to get it right. His mind was boiling over, thoughts bubbling and roiling, and it took a near Herculean effort to calm himself down. His brain, starving of oxygen, was starting to detach from the task at hand. Darkness was encroaching, his body's emergency shut-down procedure moments away from kicking in.

 

The elder Winchester blinked several times, trying to recall the sounds Sam had used, the way his brother's tongue had rolled over the words. The memory faded in and out, the playback tinny and clunky like a badly dubbed movie, but it had to be enough. Raising the incantation again, Dean attempted to recreate the lilt of his brother's voice, the pauses and the accented tones. It was hard to hear himself over the commotion in his head, but he felt something stirring within, tugging at him, making the hair stand rigid on the back of his neck.

 

It was starting to work.

 

The soft humidity in the hangar turned sharp, piercing; a clarity in the air signalling to Dean that something was coming.

 

Half way through the incantation, Dean felt the mask testing the boundaries of his consciousness once more, looking for a weak spot, but the spell was acting to keep it at bay. Holding firm, he continued, jumping skittishly as the mask began to rattle and shake against the concrete. He wanted to turn around to look at it, craved the sight of it. The mask's euphoria began to build again, tempting him, seducing him.

 

But Dean had to hold on to the pain, had to let it keep him grounded. Giving himself to the mask would mean the end of him, the end of _Sam_. He reached the final line of the incantation and the atmosphere in the echoey hangar grew thick, oppressive, bearing down on him. He felt the weight of thousands of years as the curse fought back and it nearly crushed him. His back bowed under the pressure, vibrating his fractured bones and sending spasming waves flooding through his body.

 

Crying out, he gripped the page tighter and brought it closer to his eyes. The last few words took everything he had, they tore at his throat; the sudden heat in the room burning at his lungs. He was so close, but the mask's curse was fighting hard.

 

And then, just when he thought he wouldn't make it, he shouted out the final word, expelling it from his body as though it were a deadly toxin. As soon as it left his lips, Dean heard an ear-splitting crack. Reeling in shock, he turned shakily back towards his brother, his mind tempesting. Through his hazing vision, he could see Sam still lying there, oblivious, unharmed. The mask, however, had split clean in two, its veneer dulled and worn. It looked as old as it was. It looked utterly harmless.

 

Dean swallowed, nodded and blinked. It was over. “Good,” he puffed out. “That's good.”

 

And then he collapsed.

 

 

 


	8. The Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend and beta, Sharlot, has my undying gratitude for helping to polish up this chapter and for her always insightful suggestions. I've done my usual tinkering, so any mistakes are mine.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction

**Chapter 8 – The Vigil**

 

 

The first thing Sam knew was that he was lying on a cold and solid surface, aches and pains xylophoning the length of his body. He shifted, groaning as the percussion shifted to his skull, different tempos and rhythms thudding and banging and crashing. Pain hit an ear-shattering decibel and pulsed a path across his forehead.

 

He moaned again, raising a clumsy hand to his temple, probing at the taut skin there that had swollen up into a large knot. He winced as his fingers blundered over the injury and he crushed his eyes tightly closed as the throbbing intensified. There was dried blood rusting and flaking on his upper lip and his nose felt as if it had been magnified ten times over. The scrapes and welts on his cheeks were tender to the touch, and his ribs, too, hadn't escaped the attention of whoever, or whatever, had attacked him. Everything protested as he pushed himself up into a sitting position.

 

“Huhhh!” The younger Winchester let out a sharp exhale, his head drooping forward into his upturned palms. He'd woken like this more than a few times over the course of his life; benders, bar fights, wall encounters, car crashes. They always ended with a woolly head, deafening aches, a disgruntled stomach and misery. But this time he was drawing a blank. Eyes still mashed shut, he scoured his memory for clues.

 

Sam's brows contorted as images flooded him. He pressed his hands harder against his skull, struggling to contain the onslaught. He twitched as unexpected emotions flared and dimmed with the flashbacks. There was a terrible fear, then an empty detachment. It was several moments before he could make sense of it all, before the images became clear enough to decipher, before he understood his horror.

 

It hit him in the gut.

 

“Dean!” Sam called out as his eyes flew open and he scrambled to his feet. The mask, in two pieces now and lying innocently at his side, clattered away from his uncoordinated limbs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that the spell must have been completed, that it was over. But he barely noticed this, his mind carelessly waving away the details as it strove to focus on more important things. The memory of the last words his brother had spoken to him.

 

“ _It's not your fault, Sammy...It's not your fault and it's gonna be okay”._

 

Sam's heart seized as he recalled his brother's parting words, the dreadful acceptance in Dean's eyes. The compassion in his voice.

 

He could remembered it all now: the fight with Manning; turning in alarm to see Bill grabbing Dean; the gun jabbing Dean in the gut, the arm around his brother's neck slowly depriving him of air; Bill demanding the mask.

 

The smooth, exquisite feel of the mask in his fingers when he picked it up; the delicious, irresistible compulsion that took over.

 

His worst fear.

 

“Dean!” Sam shouted again, losing his footing for a few steps as his head pounded. Distraught, his eyes flew around the hangar, swooping past Bill's prone body and finally crash landing on his big brother's crumpled form. The bowl Dean had used to break the curse was upturned several feet away, the contents scattered. Dean lay face down, head turned away from Sam. He looked as if he'd landed fully on his front, his uninjured arm lying bonelessly at his side, his bow legs tangled. Something dark stained the concrete around him. God, he looked dead.

 

“No!” Sam ground out, a cold, numb terror icing over his heart as tears pricked at his eyes. “No!” He lurched forward, legs not quite ready for him. He was shaking all over, his stomach threatening to upend itself. A familiar, desperate denial sprang to the forefront of his mind, throwing its hands out to block the reality that Sam feared above all else. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't have...Dean _couldn't_ be.

 

The younger Winchester tumbled to a graceless halt at his brother's side. He clutched at Dean with frantic haste, trying to be careful as he turned him over. “Dean!” he pleaded, heart ready to pop as Dean's head lolled into the palm of his hand. It was too much like Nebraska, and Sam felt his throat close over. He couldn't do this again.

 

A wad of blood-soaked gauze was still scrunched in Dean's loose grip and Sam didn't have to look far before he saw that the raw, pulpy bullet wound had reopened, ripped at the seams. Blood still oozed liberally, hot and sticky when Sam's hand pressed down to stem the flow. The long graze above it was also streaming. Where Sam's bullet had skimmed. Where he'd shot his brother. Again.

 

The elder Winchester's sling was missing, his freed arm twisted at an unnatural angle that brought bile to the back of Sam's throat. “Dean...” Sam's voice broke as he scrabbled to find a pulse, his useless fingers pressing fruitlessly at his brother's bruised, purpling neck. It took him too many panicked seconds to locate Dean's carotid, holding his breath until he felt a rapid, erratic heartbeat.

 

Not good.

 

“No, no, no!” He chanted, leaning in close to check his brother's breathing. Dean's chest was barely rising, a faint wisp of air tickling Sam's ear. Alarmed, he pulled back, straightening with a swiftness that sent his head spinning. Scrubbing a blood-streaked hand across his eyes to clear his blurring vision, Sam's eyes darted back and forth, taking in the devastation around him; the sprawled bodies, the clotted blood, the mess from the spell. Dean.

 

Dean.

 

There was a dead man, signs of their presence everywhere, their fingerprints on everything and an injured civilian who was going to come to at any second. The FBI were still dogging their every step, and some of the cops at the local PD had seen them with Bill. The former marine's status as a fake Fed wouldn't stay hidden for long, which meant theirs wouldn't either. Leaving it all there to be found might mean risking everything. But if Dean died, it would mean _losing_ everything.

 

It wasn't even a decision. Sam had to get his brother to the hospital. Dean couldn't wait for him to get everything cleaned up nice and tidy. There was no other option; as soon as he'd gotten Dean to safety he would have to return.

 

Sam held one hand firmly in place, keeping pressure on the ruptured wound, the other reaching up to cup Dean's cheek as he readied himself for the ordeal ahead. The skin on the older man's face had turned a lurid rainbow of blues and yellows, his skin cracked and bleeding in several places. His big brother looked as if he'd gone several rounds with a sledgehammer, and Sam tried not to think about his own black and blue knuckles and how the marks there might jigsaw with Dean's. He didn't have time for that.

 

“Hang in there, Dean! Stay with me, okay? I'm gonna get you outta here, alright?” Sam bit his lip, and levered himself upright with a restrained moan. His muscles had stiffened up in the minutes he'd spent examining his brother and they creaked and groaned with every fresh movement. Calculating, he scanned the room again. He couldn't leave their gun in case Manning woke up and called the police before he got back, it was too identifiable. Bill's gun might just be enough to confuse the cops about what had really gone down.

 

The younger Winchester staggered over to where his Colt lay discarded, light-headed at the abrupt change in altitude. Snatching it up unsteadily, brain bouncing around like a squash ball, he stuffed it into his waistband and hurried back to his brother, one hand buttressing his forehead. Dean hadn't moved a muscle and his wan pallor was becoming more stark beneath the colourful spectrum of his bruises. Grimacing against the pain, Sam bent down, slotting one arm beneath Dean's knees and the other beneath his shoulders. If his brother had known what he was about to do, the response would have been vocal, violent and venomous. But Dean didn't know, and Sam couldn't risk carrying his brother across his shoulders.

 

“Sorry, dude, no other way,” he said, taking a deep breath before heaving his brother into his arms.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

Sam's hands were shaking when he turned on the restroom faucet. The water surged out at first, making him leap back a step as the splashes soaked the front of his shirt. He'd only just changed the damn thing. Now it stuck to him like a second skin, uncomfortably wet and cool. He swore, immediately slowing the flow of water and cupping his palms to collect just enough to wash his face. Allowing his eyes to flick to the mirror in front of him, he took stock of his appearance.

 

His hair at the front was damp and askew, tufting in that way Sam knew – from frequent experience and teenage humiliation – would end up making him look like a seventies disco singer when it eventually dried. His eyes were bloodshot and cobwebbed with veins, the skin around them puffed and raw. Bruises had blossomed on his cheeks, standing out more clearly after Sam had scrubbed away the blood. The bump on his temple had darkened, and though the doctors had eyed it with hawkish concern, fully preparing to frogmarch him into an examination room, he'd refused. He didn't care about himself.

 

“ _...his haemoglobin level was dangerously low, we had to give him a number of units...”_

 

“ _...he came through the surgery, but he's in a critical condition...”_

 

“ _...we nearly lost him a couple of times...”_

 

The surgeon's words circled him, jeering at him, taunting him, bullying him. Sam knew what it all meant, had seen the horror of it for himself first hand not even a year ago. He could still picture the way Dean's body had jackknifed magnetically up against the defibrillator paddles while he'd been a helpless spectator in the doorway, could still hear the monotone drone of the flatline, could still remember the way his own heart had frozen, only beating again when his brother's had.

 

And it had happened again, just a few hours earlier. Dean's body shutting down. Leaving him. Dying. All while Sam had been busy dumping a body, mopping up blood, erasing fingerprints. His big brother had died more than once while he'd been torching Bill's corpse. He'd lost his brother all those times and he hadn't even known. The mask had succeeded. His worst fear had come true, and by his own hand. He'd _killed_ his brother.

 

One glance at his own expression in the mirror was enough to send him dashing for the nearest stall. He crashed to his knees, heaving, retching into the toilet bowl, feeling as if all his internal organs were wringing themselves out. There wasn't much to bring up. _Jim Bob's_ salad had been a long time ago, and he'd had nothing but water and coffee since. But his digestive system hadn't received the memo and it was several long, tortuous moments before he collapsed against the porcelain, exhausted and devastated.

 

He knew it wouldn't be long before someone came looking – they'd said he could go to Dean's room in the ICU as soon as his brother was settled – but the thought was terrifying. As much as he wanted to see Dean, he didn't want to face the reality of what had happened. Of what he'd done. He put his head in his hands and groaned miserably.

 

Why hadn't he been stronger? Why hadn't he been able to resist the mask's call? The threat to Dean's life should have been enough. He felt corrosive, stinging tears begin to pool at the corners of his eyes once more. If Dean didn't make it...Sam caught his breath, trying to suppress a sob. His brother was the most important person in his life, the one who gave him a reason to keep going when every part of himself was screaming, begging to give up. If Dean didn't make it, Sam would lose the other half of himself.

 

He pushed up from the gritty floor and leaned back against the formica stall, letting his head fall back with a thud that rattled the thin wall. He used a handful of scrunched, bristly tissue to wipe at his mouth and heaved a sigh, a cavernous emptiness settling in the pit of his stomach.

 

Sam had damn near smashed the land speed record in getting his brother to the ER. The Impala had shuddered anxiously all the way, as if she knew. Dean had lain along the back seat, ghostly and silent and still, Sam barely able to make out his silhouette in the rear view mirror. More than once he'd convinced himself that his brother had stopped breathing, that he was too late, but his thready pulse had still been there when they reached the hospital. The tumult of activity that greeted their arrival had been a disorientating whirlwind, and Sam couldn't remember exactly what he'd told the medical staff, he just knew he'd managed to remove Dean's fake FBI badge before anyone could find it.

 

Handing his gravely injured brother over to strangers was something he didn't think he would ever be comfortable with, or fully trust, but he'd had no choice. Dean was hurt way beyond anything he could handle himself.

 

He'd stood by, rigid with fear as his big brother had been swung onto a gurney and whisked away with chilling urgency, doctors and nurses running alongside like a toboggan team. Watching them disappear had been one of the hardest things Sam had ever done; but turning away and walking out the door had been harder still. Every step had tightened the vise around Sam's heart, the pain in his chest very real.

 

Sam had no memory of his journey back to the small airport. One moment he'd been squinting against the bright white of the hospital, the next he'd been blinking against the darkness of the hangar. The events that followed had taken on a strange, hypnagogic tone. He'd been sluggishly amazed that he hadn't arrived to flashing blue lights and buzzing activity, the little airport resting as sleepily as when he'd carried his brother out in his arms.

 

When Sam had returned to the hangar, Manning had been in the process of coming round, shaking his head with dazed, listless movements. Not wanting to risk another head injury to the unfortunate man, Sam had opted instead to choke him out. He'd gone down easily. The latent guilt still prodded uncomfortably at Sam's conscience as he recalled the way the other man had struggled and groaned. But he'd had no choice. He'd left Manning in as comfortable a position as he could manage, and made sure to call in an anonymous tip before leaving.

 

He didn't want to think about what he'd done with Bill. The faint, smoky odour that lingered in his nostrils and clung to his skin was enough of a reminder. Too much.

 

Sam shook his head, blanching as the stall began to revolve. He jabbed at his eyes until they hurt and then dragged himself upwards. His legs felt spongy and he kept one hand against the wall to steady himself as he returned to the sink. The younger Winchester trembled through another splash of water before readying himself to brave the world outside. All at once, the restroom became a safe haven, an oasis of suspended reality. He found himself hit by the absurd sense that if he stayed there, time would move on without him.

 

But Dean was out there, and Sam couldn't let him down again. There was nothing else to decide. Swallowing back the persistent taste of bile, Sam took a breath and left his sanctuary.

 

A waiting room full of sickly pallors stared morosely back at him, a motley gathering of occupants slumped in various stages of decomposition. They looked like his own reflection. Sam's gaze swung past them to land on the nurses' station further down the hallway. He wasn't one of them anymore, his number had been called. Now that he'd left the security of the restroom, all he wanted to do was see his brother; the need flaring so strong he didn't know how he'd resisted it seconds earlier. With renewed energy, he marched over to the nurses' station, interrupting what sounded like an early morning gossip session. They bestowed him tired smiles.

 

“Can I help you, sir?” A matronly type stood up, kind eyes crinkling. She wore a skullcap of rigid corkscrews, enormous glasses that wouldn't have looked out of place in Elton John's personal collection, and rosy, plump cheeks. She gave him an assessing glance, her gaze lingering on the lump on his temple. “Are you okay?”

 

Not even close.

 

“I was told my brother would be moved to a room in the ICU. Dean Clapton?” Sam asked, feeling like a small child underneath Nurse Granton's motherly inspection.

 

“Ah yes, Dr. Hamilton was looking for you just a few minutes ago.”

 

Sam stiffened.

 

“Oh no, it's nothing like that honey! He just wanted to let you know your brother was settled.” She laid a gentle hand on his arm before stepping out from behind the station desk. Sam shivered, the storm of catastrophic thoughts gradually subsiding. “I can take you up to see him if you'd like?”

 

“Yes please,” Sam tried to raise a smile, but it got lost in translation somewhere between brain and lips. His expression was so brittle he thought it might break in two, just like the mask had done. “Is he, um...is he...?”

 

“He's heavily sedated, and he'll probably be on a ventilator for a little while, just to give him a bit of help,” Nurse Granton explained as they walked, Sam struggling to hold back his impatient pace so as not to completely outstrip her. “We need to keep an eye on things for the next few days. I'll page Dr. Hamilton when we get there and he can explain your brother's condition in more detail.”

 

Sam blinked, trying to process this new information, but the words sounded distorted and muffled in his ears. The rest of the journey passed in silence, all of Sam's energy focussed on holding himself together.

 

Nurse Granton patted him on the shoulder when they reached Dean's room, telling him softly that Dr. Hamilton would see them as soon as he could. Sam barely noticed her departure, his eyes fixed on the bed, on his brother. He hesitated in the doorway, frightened to enter. The room held a palpable air of hushed fragility, as if everything was made of the most delicate china. One touch and it all would break.

 

Dean lay centre-stage, bathed in light, the room around him tapering into the shadows. A pristine white blanket covered him to the waist, crisp like sharply folded paper. There were bandages taped across the entirety of his right shoulder, absurdly large and puffy; they seemed to dwarf him. Pillows elevated his upper torso and a breathing tube forced oxygen down his throat. The rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator sucked at the stillness of the room while Dean's heart monitor beeped on confidently. A dizzying array of machines surrounded the elder Winchester. Too many.

 

Sam closed his eyes, needing to block out the sight. He'd done this. He'd put his brother here. The bruises that blotted and blotched Dean's cheeks had come from him. The gunshot wound, the ruptured stitches, the re-fractured clavicle...It was all his fault. Dean was so much stronger than he was, in so many ways. It was the only thing that allowed him to believe he could conquer his father's prophecy; the fact that he had Dean.

 

The thought of losing his big brother...it was like standing on the edge of a precipice over a cavernous eternity of pain and loneliness. He couldn't do it. He'd never survive.

 

But Dean was still alive. _For now_ , his traitorous mind needled nastily and he tried to swipe the thought away. The relief was a trickle rather than a tsunami; Sam couldn't allow himself to believe it was all going to be okay until he felt the spark of their connection, until he saw the gleam of recognition in his brother's eyes after he woke up. And he _would_ wake up, Sam vowed.

 

He stepped into the room, feeling his reticence lift like morning mist. Snagging a chair on his way to the bed, he carefully positioned it just so, and gingerly lowered himself onto it. This close, he could see how ashen his brother really was; the ghoulish smudges under his eyes, the bruises, the cracked, ridged wounds all looked like stage make-up. Too bright to be real. Dean smelled of disinfectant and that familiar, odd hospital odour that Sam had never been able to pinpoint. It didn't look like his brother, didn't smell like him, didn't feel like him.

 

Sam reached out a tentative palm and smoothed back his brother's tufts, trying to reconnect. He felt his lips tug upwards involuntarily as he imagined what Dean would say if he woke up to find his little brother mooning over him so dramatically. _Do it_ , Sam urged him silently, _Wake up and tell me what a little girl I am, huh?_ But nothing moved, and the younger Winchester's smile evaporated. He shifted his palm so that it rested atop his brother's free hand and bowed his head, squeezing his eyes against the threat of tears. None came, nothing but burning, smarting, itching pain.

 

He was beyond crying.

 

“Dean...” Sam cleared his throat uncertainly. “Man, I...uh, I'm sorry.” He lifted his gaze, letting it linger once more on his brother's face. “I let that mask...I should've been stronger.” He gripped his fingers around Dean's boneless hand, clutching at it in desperation. “You can't leave me, Dean. You can't. You promised you'd–” He broke off, trembling, unable to finish the thought. He didn't want to remember the way he'd drunkenly wheedled that pledge out of his brother, didn't want to recall how something seemed to flicker and die in Dean's eyes whenever it was mentioned. He knew what it did to Dean, but selfishly, he needed his big brother to look out for him, to be the one to do it, to end him if their father's prediction came true.

 

But it was about so much more than that. Dean was all he had left, was _everything_ he had left. His brother, the man who'd raised him, his best friend. “I need you stay with me, Dean. I can't do this alone. I don't _want_ to.” He'd been here before, words always said through fear of it being too late. Why couldn't he ever tell his brother these things when it wasn't his last chance?

 

“Just...keep fighting, man. I'll be here when you wake up,” he promised, loosening his grip on Dean's hand without fully letting go, and sitting back in his chair to wait for the doctor.

 

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

The following days began to bleed into each other, Sam never quite aware of when one ended and the next began. He marked the passage of time by his brother's progress, each milestone planted solidly in his mind, building on the foundations laid by the previous ones: the moment Dean was able to breathe for himself again; his departure from the tenterhooks of the ICU to a regular, more run-of-the-mill ward; the point when his Glasgow Coma Scale score began to rise, signalling that Dean was on the home straight to wakefulness; the first time his hand twitched.

 

Sam knew that the longer Dean took to regain consciousness, the more worrying and uncertain the outcome was likely to be. When the surgeon had stopped by that first night, he'd warned Sam of the possibility of brain damage. Dean had died twice on the operating table, each time starving his brain of oxygen, and although they'd worked as quickly as they could to resuscitate him, the medical staff couldn't reassure Sam that it was all going to be okay.

 

They hadn't done an MRI straight away, debating endlessly over the risks associated with the metal screws in Dean's shoulder, but eventually they'd decided to go ahead. The scan had shown increased intracranial pressure, and Dr Hamilton had told him through bloodless, thinned lips that they would need to wait until the swelling had reduced, and for Dean to wake up, before they could assess his condition. They'd wanted to keep him heavily sedated for a couple of days while they monitored his progress.

 

The threat of irreparable damage had tormented the younger Winchester ever since – the eviscerating fear that Dean might wake up and not be _Dean_ , that he might lose him in the worst way – but he couldn't help the spring that leapt into his step when Dr. Hamilton told him a couple of days later that his big brother was finally showing signs of waking.

 

The first time Dean opened his eyes, Sam nearly fell off his chair, taking his piled up blanket with him. But the elder Winchester hadn't so much as blinked before he was under again, as impenetrably unconscious as he had been before.

 

The nurses took pity on Sam after a couple of long nights witnessing his efforts to contort himself on the room's lone, hard plastic chair – which held all the appeal and comfort of a Judas Cradle. They tried to encourage him to go back to the motel for some rest but Sam flatly refused, pulling the puppy eyes and biting his lip. He'd returned from his two hourly round-trip to the hospital cafeteria one evening to find a much comfier chair – complete with actual padding – and a blanket. It didn't give him his brother back, but it made his vigil more bearable.

 

The staff also offered him the chance of a shower and shave in their changing rooms, which he gratefully accepted. He didn't suit stubble. After an unsuccessful attempt at growing a John Winchester-esque shadow in his late teens – Dean had called him 'butt-fluff' for months – Sam was resigned to his clean-shaven fate. He was glad, therefore, to return to his normal, smooth-faced self. So, apparently, were the rest of the ward's occupants, who no longer shot him wary looks as if he was a hobo.

 

Dean graced him with his presence that time too, but for little more than a few minutes of frowning, swallowing and lip-smacking before he was unresistingly carted back off to the land of nod. The staff were happy with his progress, but Sam was disheartened. How many times was he going to get a glimpse of his brother for it to be whipped away from him seconds later? He wouldn't believe he was really getting Dean back until his brother actually looked at him, and _saw_ him.

 

Sam thought it was the third day, though he couldn't be sure, when it finally happened. He'd treated himself to a caffeinated breakfast downstairs in the hospital cafeteria, blearily chugging down the sludgy liquid and people-watching with unabashed interest as the coffee churned and burned through the lining of his stomach. He watched as two doctors, male and female, had a hushed argument. The woman was frowning and shaking her head, while the man twitched his hands with what looked like murderous intent. Yesterday – he thought it had been yesterday – they'd had trouble keeping their hands off each other. Raising his eyebrows and twisting his lips wryly, he turned his attention from the lovers' spat to the chattering Radiographers the next table over. They were regaling each other with tales from the previous day: a patient who'd swallowed a knife and fork, and another who'd managed to catch his hand on a fish hook. What a riot.

 

Sam snorted, thinking of all the gruesome injuries that had befallen them over the years – mostly Dean, he frowned – and what they must have looked like to the few doctors they'd allowed to treat them. Dean's wounds had been hard enough to explain this time around, and they were of the less supernatural variety. Over the years, the elder Winchester had been left with embedded claws, chupacabra spikes and bites from a plethora of fuglies. And yet, it was always the bullet wounds that got the doctors excited. Sam shook his head, thinking of the conversation he'd had with the detectives who'd come by the – second? – evening. Thankfully he hadn't recognised them, nor they him, freeing the younger Winchester from the worry of being outed as an FBI impersonator. He'd given them a cut and dried mugging, but they'd still wanted to speak to Dean. It was the only time he'd been glad of his brother's unconsciousness.

 

Sam drained the remainder of his coffee and nibbled at the rubbery pastry that had been foisted on him by the well meaning cafeteria staff, who had looked at him with a row of pitying expressions when he'd trudged in earlier. It squeaked against his teeth and he shuddered, dropping it back down onto his plate, where it bounced straight off and skipped across the table surface. Sam pursed his lips, giving up. He hadn't had much of an appetite anyway.

 

He cleaned up his 'meal' and traipsed past the table of Radiographers, now discussing the most painful x-ray they had ever come across – a fingertip hanging by a tendon – and rolled his eyes. He was almost certain he could top that, but his brother awaited, and he'd already lingered too long.

 

It figured that Dean would choose a time when Sam was absent to make his grand entrance. By the time the younger Winchester made it back to his big brother's room, a flurry of activity had blizzarded in. Sam faltered several steps but quickly picked up his pace, barrelling towards the doorway, heart in his mouth. He reached it just as a stocky man in rumpled green scrubs was striding out.

 

“What's going on? Is my brother okay?” Sam demanded, only just stopping himself from grabbing at the lapels of the medic's lab coat and shaking for all he was worth.

 

“Sam,” Hamilton greeted him with a curt nod. The harsh hospital lighting shone unkindly on flashes of grey at the doctor’s temples, his otherwise dark hair moulded into a rigid helmet. His granite complexion, sunken cheeks and the bags under his eyes spoke of bone-deep weariness. Nevertheless, there was a belying briskness about him. “Your brother's awake,” was his parsimonious explanation, his face giving nothing away.

 

“What?” Sam felt several emotions chase through him, tumbling and rushing and racing against each other. He didn't know what to think. “But that...that's good, right? He's okay?”

 

“His vitals are good, but he's very confused. We want to take him for another scan.”

 

“Wait!” Sam grabbed the doctor's arm. “Isn't it normal to be a little confused? He's been unconscious for three days!”

 

The older man pursed his lips, eyeing the hand on his forearm. “We might expect Dean to present with a degree of post traumatic amnesia, but we just want to get a better idea of what we might be dealing with.”

 

“Post traumatic amnesia?” Sam released his hold on the doctor, stiffening as a new fear struck his heart. It tolled ominously in his chest as he fought to push back all of the catastrophic implications that sprung to his mind. He might not have killed his brother, but if Dean never regained himself, he might as well have.

 

Hamilton glanced back at Dean's room, looking edgy and impatient, but he met Sam's eyes with a steady gaze and began to explain. “It doesn't necessarily mean what it sounds like. Sometimes when people are unconscious after a brain injury, or are in a coma, they can be very disorientated and confused when they wake. They might have problems tracking and remembering what's going on around them. For some people it can be very brief, for others it can last a lot longer. Dean wasn't in a coma, so we think there's a good chance he won't be significantly affected.”

 

Reeling and winded at the thought, it took several beats for Sam to catch his breath. Questions chased their tails in his mind, but he couldn't grasp what he wanted to ask. He gave a vague nod, not at all certain he understood what Hamilton had just told him. Suddenly he needed to see Dean for himself, needing to know that his brother was still whole and solid in the room beyond. “Can I see him?”

 

The doctor shifted his feet, tossing another glance back at the doorway, looking as if he was deliberating. He made a production out of checking his watch, and Sam saw his chance slipping away. “Please,” the younger Winchester beseeched. “He's my big brother. The only family I got. I need to see him.”

 

Sam didn't even realise he'd unleashed the puppy eyes until Hamilton caved. “Alright,” the older man sighed, his shoulders drooping slightly before he picked up his tone again. “But briefly,” he raised a finger, “we're getting him prepped for Radiology now.”

 

Sam thought of the chatter he'd heard down in the cafeteria minutes earlier, now very reluctant to pass Dean into their hands and have him become tomorrow's breakfast fodder. Trusting his big brother's care to others was never something he managed easily. “Can I go with him?”

 

Hamilton shook his head emphatically. “No, that I cannot allow. But it shouldn't take too long.”

 

Sam bit his lip, wanting to fight but knowing it wouldn't get him anywhere. He'd picked his battle, and he'd keep his small victory. Distracted, he nodded in Hamilton's general direction before pushing his way into the room. Nurse Granton and a couple of others he'd seen on the ward were pressing buttons on the machines surrounding Dean and adjusting his bed while the bewildered patient gazed around him with blank eyes. He looked ridiculously small at the eye of the storm, fragile and meek. Sam ached to swoop down and protect him, to whisk him away.

 

The bruises marbling Dean's features had faded to a faint jaundice as the days had passed, a slight puffiness remaining around his eyes and at the corner of his mouth where the split skin had scabbed over. Otherwise, his brother moved with an unfamiliar stiffness, clearly confused by the bandages that swaddled his shoulder. Dean's pupils meandered the room, occasionally dropping down to his chest as his free hand floated up to fiddle with the gauze taped there. Each time he did, one of the nurses would gently grasp his hand and redirect it with a soft murmur.

 

Numb, Sam watched him, shaken by the open vulnerability he saw in his big brother. He didn't quite know what to do with that. The last time he'd seen his brother so seriously injured in the hospital, Dean's irrepressible spirit had been charging up and down the corridors, battling against a reaper, fighting for survival. And when he'd woken, gasping and healed, it had been business as usual; bluster and deflection. It was unnerving. And terrifying.

 

He waited for Dean's gaze to track its way to his. It wasn't long before his brother's attention wobbled upwards, before Dean caught sight of him.

 

“Dean, hey!” Sam breathed out in a rush, the rays of a smile breaking through his still turbulent fear. “Welcome back!”

 

He moved forward, ready to step back into the familiar comfort of their bond, ready for the snappy, snarky comeback. But all he got in return was a vacant, glassy stare. Sam felt a chill spread through him.

 

There was no recognition in Dean's eyes when he looked back.

 

 


	9. The Road to Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my good pal Sharlot for her wonderful beta work on this chapter – and on the whole story. I don't think I would have made it to the end of this without your encouragement, my friend, so I dedicate this chapter to you.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this work of fiction.

 

o0o0o

 

 

**Chapter 9 – The Road to Recovery**

 

Dean's surroundings blurred and splodged into a camouflage background of greens and beiges as he was conveyed at speed along hollow corridors that echoed with each clipped footstep and barked instruction. Events and proceedings seemed to orbit him rather than landing with any sense of reality, and he passively watched them circle, far away. His body felt detached from his brain, his mind an island in the midst of it all. People were doing things around him, moving objects, manipulating his limbs, speaking to him in slow, exaggerated tones that sounded comical but didn't register. Then he was in an enclosed, cylindrical space, noises droning and pulsing around him as he shivered and cowered in confusion.

 

Through it all he knew there was something he needed, something vital. The sense was so strong, so powerful, but the answer was a tantalising carrot dangling just out of his mind's reach. It was as if he didn't function properly without it, an engine with a missing part. He was uneasy, but unable to express himself. Held in place by hypnopompic shackles, he could only endure.

 

By the time his bed was in motion again, he'd fallen into a restless sleep.

 

When Dean woke sometime later, the fuzziness remained, but it held more form and structure somehow. There were familiar shapes and sounds and sensations. He thought he knew where he was, but the word tingled on the tip of his tongue. He could see, hear, smell, touch; but everything was disjointed, nothing connected. There were people around him, spectral figures who flitted in and out of his surroundings at random, who busied about him and chattered encouragingly at him. He wanted to answer, but his brain was on a time lag, only comprehending the words too late to make a response.

 

One person remained constant, a stalwart presence at his bedside.

 

Sometimes he'd stay silent for indeterminate periods, other times he'd speak in soft tones, pleadingly looking at Dean with eyes that took up half of his face. There was something comforting and safe about him. Something reassuring and calming. And Dean no longer felt lopsided and wrong as long as he stayed.

 

The elder Winchester turned his head as another man entered the room. He wasn't sure if he'd seen him before, everyone seemed to look the same. The man was older, lined and grey. He wore a white coat and carried a sheet of paper and a pen. He pulled up another chair Dean hadn't noticed and leaned forward, piercing eyes boring into the hunter in a way that made him feel intensely uncomfortable.

 

He fidgeted, a frown darkening his eyes.

 

“My name is Doctor Hamilton,” the incomer spoke with a brusque tone, enunciating each word as if chewing it several times over. “I've been looking after you over the past couple of days. You've certainly had a rough time of it.”

 

Dean's frown deepened. He understood the words just fine on their own, like the component parts of a disassembled engine. Only he wasn't sure he knew what the working machine was supposed to look like. Or sound like. Glancing down at his chest, he saw the mountain of gauze taped there. Clearly he'd been hurt, but the how, the when and the why was beyond him. He wasn't in any pain, but his body felt unnatural, as if wrapped in cotton wool.

 

“It looks as though things are still a little confusing for you right now,” the doctor continued. “That's normal. But I just need to ask you a few questions, so that we can get an idea of how you're doing.”

 

Dean narrowed his eyes, suspicious. Without knowing why, he glanced at the room's other occupant, who met his gaze with calm confidence but otherwise said nothing. Reassured, he nodded back. “Okay,” he rasped through a gritty, dry throat.

 

Hamilton glanced down at his piece of paper, his pen poised. “Can you tell me your full name?”

 

“Uh...Dean–” The elder Winchester began, and then faltered. Names of all shapes and sizes leapt to his lips, none of them feeling right. Sifting through them all took longer than it should have.

 

The doctor nodded, scribbling notes. “Okay, that's good. What about your surname?”

 

“Winchester.” It was out before Dean had a chance to think it. He blinked. Was that right? There was a soft rush of breath to his right, where the other man, his guardian sat. It sounded right. So why did he feel like he'd just gotten it wrong?

 

“Uh huh, okay,” the doctor murmured, somehow managing to make the encouraging response seem negative. He bit his lip as he scrawled something else. “And your date of birth?”

 

“January 24th 1979.” The doctor's nod was deeper this time, and Dean tensed, uneasy. This was a test, and the answers seemed important.

 

Dean was suddenly aware of the other man's attention to his right, the palpable heat of his gaze and, inexplicably, it made him want to disappear.

 

“Where do you live?”

 

Dean froze. A thousand images scrolled through his mind, all so similar and yet so different in small, idiosyncratic ways. Rooms mostly. Rooms with drab décor, rooms with wacky wallpaper, rooms carpeted with dirt. Rooms with two beds. Always with two beds. His mouth opened and closed, lips trying to form words his brain hadn't yet processed. “Um...uh...” he stammered. He cast a helpless glance at the person who'd sat with him all these hours. Sam looked concerned.

 

Sam.

 

The name was so obvious now that Dean was amazed he hadn't remembered. He stared hard at Sam, taking in the worry lines around his mouth, the riotous hair, the bloodshot eyes. Something instinctive stirred within him.

 

“Doctor...my brother and I, we kinda live on the road, you know? We travel around a lot.” Sam stepped in, eyes pinging from Dean to the doctor, and back again.

 

His brother. Sam was his _brother_. Relief surged through his veins, a rush of warmth enveloping him. The thought grounded him, gave him purpose. Of course Sammy was his brother. Nothing else made sense.

 

Hamilton pinched his chin thoughtfully as he nodded at Sam. “Okay, I understand...” He swivelled back to Dean. “What about at the moment, then? Can you tell me where you are now?”

 

Dean's brows grappled with each other, his vision turning in on itself as he interrogated his memory. And came up with a frightening amount of nothing. His body began to vibrate. “Uh...I don't...I don't know.” The words became constricted in his chest as his agitation increased, his breaths becoming laboured. What was happening to him?

 

“Dean, you okay?” Sam interjected, frowning. Both men ignored him.

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Hamilton marked something down on the paper and then returned his attention to his patient. “What about this building? Do you know what kind of place this is?”

 

Dean puffed out a lungful of air. This one, at least, he could answer. “The hospital?”

 

“Do you know when you were admitted?”

 

What the hell kind of question was that? Dean swallowed, his throat feeling more arid with every passing second. Seeds of panic were beginning to take root. He could barely remember anything beyond a few seconds ago. “No!” He snapped, unable to stop a spark of irritation from flaring up.

 

The beeping next to him accelerated. Sam twitched on the edge of his chair, throwing his brother a questioning look. “Dean, what's going on with you?”

 

“Just a few more questions, Dean.” Hamilton smiled. It wasn't reassuring.

 

“I dunno what the hell you want from me!” Dean growled, tension coiling around him, squeezing him tighter.

 

“Just do your best, Dean,” the doctor continued, keeping his tone calm and level, his focus on the page as he scribbled ferociously. “Now, do you remember how you got here?”

 

“Goddammit, _no_!” The beeping intensified, Dean's lungs beginning to wheeze under the strain. “I can't answer your _damn_ questions!”

 

Sam was out of his chair. The legs scraped against the floor with a high-pitched screech. “That's enough!” he thundered, pointing an accusatory finger at the doctor. The atmosphere in the room turnedclaustrophobic. “Can't you see this is upsetting him?”

 

Hamilton pushed to his feet, the two of them facing off across Dean's bed. Two sets of squared shoulders, steely glares and stern voices battling each other. “We need to establish Dean's mental state–”

 

“I understand that. I do. But it can wait.” Sam's tone brooked no argument. His jaw was jutting, hands on hips, feet set apart. Dean found that he knew, from experience, that no one would go toe to toe with Sam when he looked like that. Hamilton was no different.

 

The doctor sighed and cast an examining eye over the monitors at Dean's bedside. “Alright,” he nodded, reaching for the chart at the end of the bed. “We'll give him something to help him calm down and then we'll try again later.”

 

The words were rapid fire, too quick for Dean to fully process. The doctor moved closer, adjusting something next to the hunter's free arm. “That should help,” Hamilton announced, stepping back. There was a strange sensation in Dean's hand where the line was attached. “Sam?” he called out, a cloud of confusion muddying his features.

 

The younger man startled, his attention all at once on Dean; intent, searching. Everything stopped as Dean waited. Then Sam's brow smoothed, a smile devouring his face. “Hey, man! You back with me, huh?” The kid's tone was light, teasing, but his eyes had deepened, something indefinable connecting the two of them; hooking Dean and reeling him in. A tidal wave of emotion started to build, primed to break over them.

 

“S'mmy?” the elder hunter murmured this time, a heady sensation beginning to take over. The edges of his vision fraying like torn fabric.

 

And then his little brother was there, leaning over him, filling the entire room. He laid a hand on Dean's good arm, patting gently. “It's okay. You're gonna be okay. The doctor just gave you something to help you sleep. Get some rest, Dean.”

 

“S'm?” It seemed to be the only thing he was capable of voicing. The only thing that mattered.

 

“I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.”

 

It was all he needed to hear.

 

 

o0o0o

 

 

 

The next time Dean awoke, the world felt different, lines and edges razor sharp and real. Eyes closed, his senses felt loud and vibrant, working overtime to make up for their enforced hiatus. He could feel a mattress beneath him; a pragmatic, firm affair that could only have been hospital issue. A thin, crisply starched blanket lay across his midriff with a light touch, while the familiar cotton of a hospital gown whispered over his skin. The rhythmic beeping coming from his left amplified in his ears as his awareness grew, along with the exaggerated bite of the pulse monitor on his left index finger and the pull of the IV line in the back of his left hand. His right was strapped up, he noted, a small frown puckering his brow. His chest felt heavy like a lump of unformed clay.

 

He scanned the room for signs of Sam. He didn't manage to quash the small pang of panic when he found it empty, even though he knew the kid had most likely been camped out with him for...however long he'd been here. The chair to his right was ringed by a meringue of abandoned blanket, and the younger man's cell phone sat atop the nightstand – along with a pitcher of water that Dean hadn't a hope of reaching. Evidently, wherever Sam had wandered off to, he wasn't planning to be gone long. The thought warmed Dean as he began the unpleasant, but well-practised task of sifting through his mental detritus.

 

He remembered a malaise of haziness, of disorientation and slow motion capture, but had no sense of time, of just how long he'd been out of it. He shifted in discomfort, undercurrents of pain chasing across his chest. His memory grew clearer with each passing moment, his unease intensifying as he recalled the unfolding events at the airfield. How he'd gotten that second wound. How he'd taken down his brother. How Bill had died.

 

Sam's cold eyes behind the mask.

 

He swallowed back a thick gulp, his throat sticking like velcro. He'd finished the spell and destroyed the mask's curse – at least, he thought he had, those last few moments before he'd passed out were distinctly blurry – and yet, it didn't feel like a win. So many people had died. He'd messed up, had trusted the wrong person and put his brother in danger. Oh yeah, and he'd taken another bullet.

 

Dismayed, he examined the bandages wrapping his shoulder. The extra padding made him look like the friggin' Michelin man. Recovery was going to be one hell of a bitch this time, he wrinkled his nose and let out a wry snort, not least because Sam was almost certainly going to be _worse_. The urgency of the hunt that first time had given Dean the excuse he'd needed to avoid the inevitability of physical therapy, but he didn't think he'd be able to persuade Sam to allow him that luxury this time. The likelihood of convincing his little brother to spring him early again was probably also out of the question. The kid had mother-henpecking down to an art form.

 

A scuffing sound at the door jolted his attention. His eyes brightened, crinkling at the corners when he caught sight of his brother shuffling into the room. Sam looked unfocussed and cross-eyed, hair framing his pale face in lank curtains. His shoulders were tense, hitched up at his ears. Grubby bruises smeared his cheeks, making him look like the casualty of a kindergarten finger-painting session, but he appeared otherwise unharmed. The kid drifted through the doorway, inspecting the label of a cellophane-wrapped sandwich, brows locked together, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

 

“Too many B-numbers?” Dean commiserated, unable to prevent a fond snort.

 

“E-numbers,” Sam corrected automatically. Then he stopped dead. His head snapped up, his smile veering from a very raw relief to a more controlled exasperation as his shoulders dropped. “Dude, I swear, every time I leave the room you decide to make an appearance.”

 

“Yeah, your timin' always sucked,” Dean dead-panned, making sure Sam saw the twinkle in his eye.

 

“Shut up.” Somehow it was an endearment. “So, you're really...back?” Sam looked tentatively up at him through his eyelashes. _Hell of an achievement_ , Dean thought, considering the extent to which he towered over the bed. The elder Winchester cleared his throat, trying not to choke on the potent emo pheromones Sammy was giving off.

 

But as much as Dean might have wanted to push it aside, the _little_ in his brother wasn't something he could brush off with ease. “I go somewhere or somethin'?” he asked, aiming for casual. Failing.

 

“Or something,” Sam answered with deliberate vagueness, staring at him with a solemnity that squirmed muscles Dean didn't even know he had. “How you feelin'?”

 

“Fine,” he tried to say, but his voice crackled and dried up like an old record.

 

Sam's features dissolved. “Dammit!” he hissed, skirting the bed with two swift steps and reaching for the pitcher. “Sorry man, you must be thirsty,” he offered contritely, filling a glass and passing it across to Dean's free hand. The sandwich was tossed onto a free chair, already forgotten as Sam reclaimed his position at Dean's bedside.

 

Dean took a long draw, very aware of his brother's scrutiny. He swallowed gingerly, his throat still tender and raw. Once false gulp and Sam looked ready to snatch the glass away, and Dean wanted to avoid triggering a bitch-fit if he could help it.

 

“You okay? You in any pain?” Sam sounded as though he was attempting to make up for lost mothering time. He took the glass from Dean anyway, before the elder Winchester could even draw breath, placing it back on the nightstand and peering in closely at his big brother. With those hypnotic eyes. “Out of ten. Tell me the truth.”

 

Dean stalled. There was the usual outright lie, there was the truth, and there was The Truth. Getting the balance right was tricky, otherwise Sammy would see straight through him. He gave himself an internal once over. A solid eight. If he'd been feeling brave, he'd have chanced the zero, but he knew he was off his game. Factoring in Sam's natural propensity to disbelieve him, Dean aimed for somewhere in the middle. “Four?”

 

When the kid's eyes turned to slits, Dean knew he should have made it sound less like a question. “I'm calling the nurse,” Sam announced, lifting an arm with the span of an albatross wing and stretching across the bed for the call button.

 

“No, Sam!” Dean snatched it up, only just holding it out of his brother's considerable reach. “I'm okay.” But his breathing was heavy and shuddering, and he knew it hadn't been missed by the kid's beady eye.

 

“Dean...” Sam dialled back the bitchface as worry rose to take its place. “I should get them to page the doc anyway. You've been a little out of it for the past twenty-four hours. You were...uh...they had to keep you under for a couple days.”

 

Dean lowered his gaze. He knew it was an understatement. Sam tended to make more of a drama out of the little things. “What do you mean?”

 

“You lost a lot of blood, Dean,” Sam exhaled sharply and looked away for a moment. “They had to bring you back a couple times in the OR. They were worried about brain damage.”

 

_Oh._

 

Dean blinked twice. And again. He didn't know what to do with that, the words rebounding, repelled by a numb forcefield of denial. He didn't _feel_ damaged. Not in a way that couldn't be fixed.

 

“Dean?” Sam's tone was all egg-shells and kid-gloves.

 

“I'm fine.”

 

The younger man squinted at him in naked disbelief. “Dean...there were moments when you...when you didn't even know who I was.” He sounded haunted, his obvious unease settling like a chill into Dean's bones. He couldn't even imagine...It wasn't an outcome he wanted to think about. “Doctor Hamilton is gonna want to come check you out–”

 

Dean caught a brief wisp of memory; a middle-aged man in a white lab coat bombarding him with impossible questions and taking notes. An inexplicable panic flared. “No!” he barked, with more vehemence than he'd intended.

 

Sam's ears visibly pricked and Dean cursed under his breath.

 

“I'm fine,” the elder hunter scrambled to salvage the situation, battling against the desire for self-preservation and the need to chase away the scary monsters for his little brother. “Right? I'm _me_. I'm _okay_. I know _where_ I am, I know who _you_ are, who _I_ am. I'm fine.”

 

Sam raised his eyebrows, looking as if he wholeheartedly disagreed with that last assertion. “Yeah, you sound like you, alright,” he muttered darkly, making it sound disastrous. “But Dean...you really scared the hell outta me, dude. Just...I need to make sure. I'm calling the doctor, okay?”

 

Dean closed his eyes, capitulating with deep reluctance. “Fine. But I still got one good fist, Sammy and I ain't afraid to use it. I remember what happened the last time that douchebag tried to give me a pop quiz.” He shot his brother an obstinate glare.

 

Sam just shook his head.

 

 

o0o0o

 

Both doctor and patient had been on their best behaviour during the second clash. Hamilton didn't push and Dean, wanting the whole ordeal over with as quickly as possible, didn't push back. He answered all the questions directed at him as well as he could, even managing to hold onto a flash of rage as the doctor spoke of further testing and poking and prodding. Hamilton had seemed satisfied, or at least, he hadn't sent up a warning flare, and Dean was chalking it up as a victory.

 

Sam had sat by throughout, beaming with humiliating, parental pride. Dean had been thinking of the doctor when he'd threatened to start throwing punches, but Sam had just smiled his way to the front of the queue. Only the memory of the kid's traumatised expression just half an hour earlier had stayed his hand.

 

“Seriously, you sure you don't want any more pain meds?” Sam watched him with shrewd eyes.

 

The doctor had offered an increased dosage. Dean had politely refused. Hamilton had responded by frowning at the hunter as if he were an anomalous laboratory result. Dean had given him the stoic stare. Hamilton had held his gaze for several long seconds, but had eventually accepted his patient's decision. A nurse would look in on him later, the doctor had decreed with a curt nod. It hadn't escaped Dean's notice, though, that Hamilton had glanced at Sam with defeated solidarity before taking his leave. But the elder Winchester wasn't dwelling on that.

 

“Sam...” He tried not to whine.

 

“Dean, c'mon–” Sam tried not to whine.

 

They were both unsuccessful.

 

Tired, Dean decided to drop the façade, just for a moment. “Look Sammy...” he began, forcing out words that felt heavy and rusty with disuse. “It hurts like a bitch, alright?” Sam's lips took on a pinched expression, a frown ploughing a furrow on his forehead. “But,” Dean went on, “things feel clear – I feel clear – for the first time in...however long I've been here. I don't need something foggin' me up right now.”

 

Sam nodded, but his expression darkened with dissatisfaction, his posture all sharp edges and acute angles. “I get it,” he conceded grudgingly, though his eyes lingered on the call button. He paused, visibly recalibrating. “What's the last thing you remember?”

 

Dean couldn't hide a guilty wince, eyes sliding away from his brother. It wasn't a surprise that Sam hadn't swallowed the response he'd fed Hamilton. “Takin' you down.” His throat was painful when he cleared it. “After that...Nada. I finish the spell?”

 

A soft snort. “Yeah, dude, you finished the spell.”

 

The elder hunter paused cautiously. “And...you're okay, right?”

 

Sam blinked, as if surprised by the question. He took a breath and puffed it back out again, scratching at the back of his neck. “Yeah, I'm fine, man. Thanks to you.”

 

Dean let out a disbelieving laugh, regretting it seconds later when everything pulled. “I cold-cocked you with your own gun, Sam.” The self-reproach was out before Dean could make any attempt to cover it up.

 

“You didn't have a choice,” Sam assured him, his knowing eyes seeing more than Dean would have liked. “How did you even manage that anyway? You were beat to hell!”

 

“I had help.” It was a soft admission.

 

“What are you talking about?” Sam demanded, nonplussed.

 

Dean raised his brows and cocked his head, waiting. He could almost hear the cogs turning.

 

It took several beats.

 

“He...You...What?” the younger man stammered, eyes widening as it dawned on him. He leaned forward at his brother's stiff nod, jabbing a finger. “I-I remember _killing_ him, Dean! How...?”

 

Dean stared resolutely at the foot of his bed. “He might be dead now, but he didn't die straight away. Somehow...” His voice was dull as he recounted the events. Emotions tangled around each other as he spoke, wrapping up tight like a ball of string. “He tripped you. You fell. I was there with the gun. Guess he came through in the end.”

 

“Jesus...” Sam whispered, stunned. “I killed him....” He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment before they flew open again. “Damn near killed _you_ too!”

 

“Hey,” Dean turned back to his brother, catching his gaze and holding it with steady certainty. “Not your fault. Wasn't you.”

 

“It might not have been me in the driving seat, Dean, but I'm the one who let that mask take the wheel. It _is_ my fault.”

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. If we're gonna play 'mine's the biggest' here...I'm the one who brought Bill into this. _I_ screwed up, Sam.” Even admitting it now – when they'd destroyed the curse and were both, relatively, unharmed – was shaming. He felt his cheeks sizzle as he once again avoided looking at his brother. “You saw through him,” he told the heart monitor to his left. It beeped on, unmoved. “You were right. We wouldn't even be in the crap we're in right now if it wasn't for me,” he mumbled, feeling the weight of yet another failure. Sam should never have been put in that position; choosing between his big brother and the rest of the world. Dean turned back to Sam, needing the younger man to hear him. “The mask looked for an in, and it took it. Your defences were down.” _And that's on me_.

 

“Dean...I _shot_ you!” But Sam was determined not to be absolved. He stared at Dean half-meek, half-bold, like he wanted his big brother to tear him a new one but was afraid of the worms he might let loose from the can.

 

The elder Winchester wasn't about to oblige him. “Well, lucky for me you're a lousy shot!”

 

Sam's eyes popped. “That's not funny, Dean!”

 

“C'mon, it's a little funny,” Dean coaxed, eyes twinkling.

 

“No, it's not.” Sam's bottom lip was chewed raw, a vein ticked on his jawline. Barely keeping his composure. “I thought I'd lost you. Thought _I'd_...When I woke up in that hangar and saw you...”

 

 _Great_ , Dean rolled his eyes internally even as he felt himself cave. As much as he hated Sam's persistent determination to make him the star of soap opera hour, he was incapable of being indifferent when his little brother was upset about something. Being a big brother was hard-wired, a fixed, instinctive response. He couldn't have stopped it if he'd wanted to.

 

“C'mon, Sammy...” He eyeballed the kid until Sam stared back, listening. “You really think you wouldna been capable of puttin' a bullet between my eyes if the mask had full control over you? You didn't. _It_ didn't.” Sam gulped and Dean watched his Adam's apple bobble reflexively. “You musta been in there somewhere, Sammy. You gave me a fightin' chance.”

 

“You think?” Sam sounded so young and unsure of himself, Dean felt his heart constrict.

 

“I _know_ ,” Dean countered. “So...” He took a breath. “If we're done with the soul searchin'...”

 

“How did you resist it?” Sam blurted, then looked away, as if he regretted the question.

 

“Come again?” Dean played dumb. He hadn't planned on going anywhere near this conversation.

 

“The _mask_ , Dean!” Sam worried at his bottom lip again. “You can't tell me you didn't feel it. You were...Hell, Dean, you were _dying_. How'd you throw it off?”

 

“Sam...” The older man grimaced, using what limited range of movement he had to twist away from his brother's questioning gaze. It was a mistake. “Gah!” he grunted as a bolt of pain shot across his shoulder. “Jesus,” he panted, eyes squeezing shut. His free hand twitched helplessly against the mattress.

 

“Dean!” Sam was looming over him again. “Hey!” A giant paw on his bicep, steadying. “What's goin' on? You okay?”

 

Gritting his teeth, Dean rode the pain through the rapids, clinging on tight. “I'm fine!” he growled, angry at himself for losing his cool.

 

“Yeah, sure you are,” Sam scoffed, his hand disappearing from Dean's arm. “I'm getting the nurse in here.”

 

“The hell you are!”

 

The younger man bit back a retort with visible effort. “Alright, alright.” He took a deliberate step back, though embers of concern glowed on in the depths of his gaze.

 

Dean ignored his brother for several seconds, hands full with wrestling his pain into submission.

 

Sam waited until Dean's breathing had slowed before venturing a question. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean nodded, the response almost lost in a rush of breath. “Yeah I'm good.” He looked up at the younger man, his big brother radar picking up the classic defensive tells; jaw welded shut, fists clenching and unclenching, the way his weight had shifted forward so that he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. Then Dean remembered the other things he'd noticed, how exhausted his brother had looked, the injuries Sam had sustained. His little brother couldn't have gotten more than a few hours of sleep since the events at the airfield. “You, on the other hand...” he let the observation trail off.

 

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sam took the bait, as expected.

 

“When was the last time you got some shut-eye?” Dean demanded, seeing an opportunity to direct the spotlight away from himself and on to Sam and pressing his advantage.

 

The younger Winchester paused, his stance shifting as he raised a hand to scrub through his hair. “I've slept...”

 

But he didn't sound sure, and all at once Dean recalled the mess they'd left behind at the hangar. Bodies and blood and fingerprints. The mess Sam would've had to clean up. By himself. Regret stabbed at him as a band of nausea tightened around his stomach. He'd never wanted that for Sam; disposing of corpses and mopping up after his big brother's mistakes. The kid shouldn't have had to deal with that alone.

 

“I've seen revenants that looked better,” Dean pointed out bluntly, holding up his free hand before Sam could work himself into a hissy fit. “Look man, why don't you go back to the motel, get some sleep.”

 

When Sam opened his mouth – a protest already forming – Dean held up his hand again. “I'm not goin' anywhere.” He gestured to the equipment that wired him in place, at the sling and bandages that impeded his movement. He was stuck fast, and the younger man knew it. “And _you_ look like a sneeze could take you out.”

 

He'd expected a bitchface, but what he got instead was a laden sigh and slumped shoulders. It was like a scene from many a childhood night; Dean trying to convince a tired but wanting-to-stay-up-past-his-bedtime Sammy that it was lights out. The youngest Winchester had been so desperate to be part of the adult world his father and big brother lived in, but almost as soon as he'd been allowed to he'd wanted back out again. The same battle was being waged years later. Sam trying to step up but still wanting – needing – his brother to take the lead.

 

“You did good, Sammy,” Dean said fondly, warming as he saw a small patch of colour spread across the kid's cheeks. “Now go get some rest.”

 

Straightening, Sam seemed to come to a decision. “Okay,” his head bobbled elastically, “but no turning up at the motel, Dean.” His gaze sharpened, reminding his big brother of the epic lecture he'd delivered back in Nebraska after Dean had checked himself out of the hospital. “I mean it.”

 

Dean snorted, but inclined his head all the same.

 

“And get some rest yourself. I'll be back in a few hours.”

 

They stared at each other for a long, quiet beat before Sam took a deep, gathering breath and trudged from the room. Dean watched him leave, holding himself steady, tense and controlled. As soon as Sam's gigantor frame had disappeared from view, the elder Winchester fell back against his pillows, shaking and gasping; pain finally getting the upper hand as his energy evaporated. He slammed his eyes shut involuntarily, the agony cutting him off from the rest of the world. Bottom lip quivering, he endured it for several, interminable moments before forcing open an eye. Feeling around on the bed for the call button, he almost barked out a laugh of relief as his fingers closed around it.

 

It didn't take long for the nurses to answer Dean's call and it took even less time before morphine was flooding his veins and he was floating. A few hours, Sam had said. Sam would be back in a few hours. Dean would be fine by then, he was sure of it. He let his eyes flutter gently closed this time as the pain ebbed, receding like the tide, his consciousness drifting with it.

 

In the end, Dean didn't know how long it had been, only that by the time he opened his eyes again, his brother was there.

 

o0o0o

 

It hadn't been much of a homecoming, Dean's eventual discharge from the hospital and return to the no frills 'comfort' of their motel room. Sam had tried his best, ordering Chinese and ensuring there was a Clint Eastwood classic on television, but his big brother, exhausted after days of intensive physical therapy and mental testing, had moved through a spectrum of grumpy, grouchy moods and had ended up crashing out in the early evening. He'd accepted pain medication with minimal fuss, something which always gave Sam cause for concern, so the younger man had doped him up and put him straight to bed.

 

The younger Winchester knew his brother's rehabilitation had been gruelling. On more than one occasion he'd returned to Dean's room to find him sweaty and irritable, muttering dark curses under his breath. Another time, Dean had been dragged off for a cognitive assessment which he'd later likened to having his brain torn apart by a Wendigo. When Sam had charged off to give Hamilton a piece of his mind, the doctor had explained that they'd needed to check for any lingering after-effects from the hypoxia.

 

Most of Dean's test results had come back normal. Apart from one or two minor problems that were likely to improve over time – like Dean forgetting what he'd had for breakfast that morning, and being somewhat slower at taking in information – he'd been left remarkably unscathed. He'd also developed an odd liking for _Air Supply_ that Sam intended to milk for all it was worth and had decided that while he still loved regular M &Ms, he could no longer stomach the peanut variety. Those last ones were unlikely to change, Sam had found out after a covert enquiry.

 

The younger Winchester could live with that, but was disappointed that his big brother hadn't miraculously developed a taste for tofu. No, that would have been far too healthy.

 

Sam had kept his ear to the ground throughout Dean's recovery, fretting over the possibility of their presence at the airfield being discovered, or worse, Bill's remains being found. He'd made every effort to cover his tracks, but the whole débâcle had left him jittery and with a grimy feeling no amount of water and shower gel could wash away. As far as he could tell, though, nothing had been unearthed. They remained undetected.

 

After Dean's uncharacteristic forthrightness at the hospital, they hadn't spoken of anything deeper than either their immediate circumstances, or poker – at which Dean was still capable of trouncing him even with persisting cognitive problems – and Sam had been growing more and more frustrated. And he could see his window of opportunity to obtain answers getting smaller and smaller as each passing day saw another piece of Dean's emotional armour being reassembled.

 

It wasn't until they were back on the road a couple of days later, Arkadelphia reduced to a scattering of blurry, rippling shapes through the dusty haze in their rearview mirror as the Impala devoured the asphalt, that Sam felt safe in broaching the topic.

 

He kept one hand on the steering wheel, perching his elbow on the searing hot rim of the open window and wincing at the burn. “So...uh, Emily Berger's death was officially classed as a suicide. Manning was cleared of any criminal activity. He reported being attacked at the airfield, but he apparently can't remember why he was there or how he got there.”

 

“Huh,” Dean grunted, his eyes on the roadside shrubbery that flew past the passenger window in sporadic clumps.

 

“Doesn't sound like there was much of an investigation,” Sam continued, trying to maintain a casual tone in the face of his brother's obvious lack of enthusiasm. “Looks like we're in the clear.”

 

“S'good...” Dean shifted awkwardly in his seat, looking uncomfortable in a way that suggested more than physical pain. He cleared his throat with a portentous air, but didn't turn to meet his little brother's gaze. “Listen Sam...uh...I never really thanked you for taking care of all that. You really saved my bacon, and dragged both our asses outta the fire.”

 

Sam curled his lips in faint amusement at the mixed metaphors but wisely refrained from pointing it out. Dean was talking, and he wanted to keep it that way. “Don't mention it.” The warmth in his voice seemed to thaw the frosty tension in Dean's posture and the older man finally turned towards him.

 

“Dean...” Sam began, diving head first through the opening that presented itself. “About Bill...I gave him a hunter's burial.” He paused, unsure how his brother would react. “Figured that's what you would've done,” he admitted.

 

Dean let out a chuckle, though his eyes were devoid of mirth. “Yeah, well, he mighta turned out to be a backstabbing douchebag, but he did right in the end.”

 

There was a long silence, not adversarial, but not companionable either. Sam fretted in silence about how best to break it, how best to extract the information he wanted, but in the end it was Dean who made the first move.

 

“Sammy, I'm sorry.”

 

“What for?” Sam spluttered, bewildered.

 

“You were right.” Dean scratched at his stubble with his free hand, the way he always did when he was struggling with an uncomfortable truth.

 

“About what?” But Sam still had no idea where this was going.

 

“Bill was playin' us from the start on this one. But then, he always was.”

 

 _Ah_.

 

“The Manticore...me bein' bait, lurin' it out...It was all Bill's idea. I thought I knew what I was doing...”

 

“Dean...” Sam started, but the elder hunter shook his head.

 

“You know he came and found me behind Dad's back, right? After Dad said no. Came and told me Dad was too soft, that I was the one who was man enough,” Dean smiled, but it was derisive and bitter. “I was stupid. I let him talk me into it. 'Course, that time at least I had an excuse. I was old enough, and wise enough, to know better in New Mexico and I still fell for it.” His voice was strained, brittle thin. “But dammit, Dad had taken off, you were in California...”

 

Sam felt sick at that, but he didn't want his brother to stop talking. “What happened?”

 

“We were pretty sure we'd found the bitch, but we couldn't be sure. We needed to see if she had the Mark.”

 

“That's what you and Bill were talking about back at _Jim-Bob's_?”

 

Another caustic smile. “It was his idea. We were runnin' outta time and we needed to be certain before we took her out. He really had me. I was pissed at Dad and y–” he let out a clumsy cough, hastening to correct himself. “Well, I was angry, and Bill was buttering me up, sayin' all this crap about him bein' old and me bein' in my prime.” He shook his head, shooting Sam a smirk the younger man didn't return. “Well that part was true.”

 

“Dean...” Sam's protest was soft, sincere. Trying to stop his big brother from deflecting as he always did.

 

“I hooked up with her. And man, I gotta say, for a _witch_...she was–”

 

“Yeah, I don't think I need to know _those_ details, Dean!”

 

“Yeah, well it went south pretty fast. Turns out she made me the second she laid eyes on me. I shoulda been prepared. I wasn't. Bill was waitin' outside. When I didn't show, he came lookin'.” He chuckled again, but the sound was laced with regret. “It was a stupid plan. If Dad had ever found out...”

 

“How bad was it?” Sam really didn't need to hear this. But then again, he did.

 

“Bad. That's all you need to know.” Just like that, the door was slammed shut.

 

“But–” And no amount of pushing and pulling and shouldering was going to get it open again.

 

“Ain't gonna do any good, goin' over old ground, Sammy. Just let it go.”

 

But maybe, just maybe there was another pathway. “I will if you will.”

 

“Come again?” Dean cocked his head.

 

“I'll let it go. If you stop beating yourself up about Bill.” Sam hadn't been pre-law for nothing.

 

“Sam–” It was Dean's turn, now, to object.

 

“I'm serious, dude. I'm the driver. I'm the one who decides where and when we stop, I'm the one who chooses whether or not we have music. And I can keep this up for as long as it takes.”

 

Dean gaped at him, apoplectic.

 

“So...” Sam went on, “you can either tell me what I want to know, or we _both_ agree to let it go.”

 

Dean worked his jaw as though chewing over his options.

 

“Well?” Sam wheedled his voice up a couple of notches, pitching it just right.

 

“Fine!” Dean shuffled around with a harrumph so that his back was to the younger man. “Last friggin' time I ever let you drive,” he grumbled mutinously.

 

A self-satisfied grin threatened to spill over Sam's face but he tried to hold onto it. _Check mate_.

 

“Nobody likes a gloater, Sam!”

 

Too late. The laughter bubbled up before he could stop it. Dean raised a solitary middle finger without turning around. Still chuckling, Sam reached forward and flicked on the stereo in conciliation. _Sultans of Swing_ burst from the speakers and he saw his brother relax into his seat, lips curving at one corner. He settled back into his own seat, satisfied that the worst of it was over, for now.

 

The younger Winchester checked the rearview mirror. Arkadelphia had melted into the horizon behind them. In front of them, the empty, endless highway awaited. The Impala roared.

 

Sam turned the volume up.

 

 

_The End_

 

 


End file.
